Ever have words that just totally gross you out, even if they have no gross connotation? Then there are the words that DO have gross connotations that are even more disgusting. These words are uncomfortable to say, feel nasty to hear, look disgusting in print, and just leave a terrible, awful taste in your mouth and a clenching pit in your stomach. So here it is--my compilation of the top 35 grossest words in the English language. Brace yourself; this is not for the weak-stomached.
1. Moist
2. Crusty
3. Discharge
4. Bolus
5. Pus
6. Phlegm
7. Viral
8. Pubic, Pubertal, Puberty, Pube, etc.
9. Warts
10. Ballsack
11. Turgid
12. Rectum
13. Limpid
14. Pimple
15. Nipple
16. Panties
17. Lips
18. Testes
19. Flaccid
20. Feces
21. Lumps
22. Juices
23. Cleavage
24. Chaffing
25. Foreskin
26. Placenta
27. Ebola
28. Festering
29. Spermy
30. Boil
31. Tubules
32. Jiggle
33. Spew
34. Upchuck
35. Squirt
Monday, August 1, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Great Expectations
“I don’t expect much from people in general.”
My friend said this to me one night during a discussion on Facebook chat, and when I asked him why, he explained, “they will always just disappoint me.”
Wow. Really?
For some reason, that rubbed me entirely the wrong way. Sure, I guess some people can and will disappoint you, but should that put a blanket over your holistic view of people? Has my friend really been so terribly mistreated, so horribly let down by everyone that he has learned not to expect anything from anyone? I doubt it.
And even if he had been let down by everyone in his life, what makes it okay to lower your standards so people meet your expectations? It’s like erasing the chalky, etched foul line on the pavement and re-drawing it a few feet closer to the basketball hoop. Sure, it may not challenge you anymore, but at least the ball easily swishes through the net every time you shoot.
In elementary and middle school, I remember suffering the consequences of maintaining the scapegoat status in my group of friends. I never got to sit in the middle of the lunch table (everyone knows the people on the ends have it the worst; I had to strain my already sub-par ears just to catch the punch line of a funny story). My friends never invited me into their secret clubs (I distinctly remember them forming a “Bean Club” from which I was excluded, and then ridiculed for not belonging to it. Um, if you’re not going to invite me to your club, how do you justify making fun of me for not being part of it? In retrospect, I’m happy I never joined the Bean Club. My friends probably would’ve made sure I was the kidney bean or lima bean, or something else that’s totally low on the Bean Hierarchy.)
I never accepted those little jabs at my confidence level as okay; I realized that I deserved better friends and I slowly cut off ties with the group (they did finally invite me into the Bean Club; I politely declined).
Now, eight years later, I would definitely say I have good friends--and lots of them. Sure, some of them have disappointed me, and I’m sure I have disappointed some of them. I’m not perfect (by any means), and I don’t expect the important people in my life to be. In fact, I don’t expect anyone in my life to be. Perfection isn’t what I look for—I look for “good enough.”
But what is good enough? Clearly, my friend’s “good enough” does not match mine. His “good enough” is so low, that nobody can disappoint him. Of what use is that?
Is it snobby to hold high expectations of people?
More importantly, what expectations are considered too high?
Overall, I expect kindness. I expect generosity, conscientiousness, and genuine concern about other people. I don't think that's too much to ask.
Why isn't it too much to ask? Because the majority of people actually possess these traits. Enough of this crap about society being selfish, greedy and egotistical. I believe that people are inherently good, caring about others as much as (or more than) they care about themselves. Some will say that this optimism about people is naïve or ignorant—I think it’s ignorant to think otherwise. Call me easy to please, but I am ultimately satisfied with nearly everyone I meet.
And when I’m not satisfied, I move on. I don’t believe that you should lower your expectations to prevent disappointment. If someone disappoints you, it should only propel you to raise your standards for the next person you meet. Because unless you’re looking at someone like James Franco (sexy, talented and smart? Okay, he just might be perfect), there’s always going to be someone who surprisingly surpasses your expectations.
So, while I’m waiting for that person, I will continue to maintain my high standards. And I can only hope that everyone else does, too. My expectations may not always be met, but at least I know that when they are, that person really does meet them. I won’t re-locate my foul line closer to the net—I’d rather wait longer for someone to make the shot from half court. And I know someone will.
My friend said this to me one night during a discussion on Facebook chat, and when I asked him why, he explained, “they will always just disappoint me.”
Wow. Really?
For some reason, that rubbed me entirely the wrong way. Sure, I guess some people can and will disappoint you, but should that put a blanket over your holistic view of people? Has my friend really been so terribly mistreated, so horribly let down by everyone that he has learned not to expect anything from anyone? I doubt it.
And even if he had been let down by everyone in his life, what makes it okay to lower your standards so people meet your expectations? It’s like erasing the chalky, etched foul line on the pavement and re-drawing it a few feet closer to the basketball hoop. Sure, it may not challenge you anymore, but at least the ball easily swishes through the net every time you shoot.
In elementary and middle school, I remember suffering the consequences of maintaining the scapegoat status in my group of friends. I never got to sit in the middle of the lunch table (everyone knows the people on the ends have it the worst; I had to strain my already sub-par ears just to catch the punch line of a funny story). My friends never invited me into their secret clubs (I distinctly remember them forming a “Bean Club” from which I was excluded, and then ridiculed for not belonging to it. Um, if you’re not going to invite me to your club, how do you justify making fun of me for not being part of it? In retrospect, I’m happy I never joined the Bean Club. My friends probably would’ve made sure I was the kidney bean or lima bean, or something else that’s totally low on the Bean Hierarchy.)
I never accepted those little jabs at my confidence level as okay; I realized that I deserved better friends and I slowly cut off ties with the group (they did finally invite me into the Bean Club; I politely declined).
Now, eight years later, I would definitely say I have good friends--and lots of them. Sure, some of them have disappointed me, and I’m sure I have disappointed some of them. I’m not perfect (by any means), and I don’t expect the important people in my life to be. In fact, I don’t expect anyone in my life to be. Perfection isn’t what I look for—I look for “good enough.”
But what is good enough? Clearly, my friend’s “good enough” does not match mine. His “good enough” is so low, that nobody can disappoint him. Of what use is that?
Is it snobby to hold high expectations of people?
More importantly, what expectations are considered too high?
Overall, I expect kindness. I expect generosity, conscientiousness, and genuine concern about other people. I don't think that's too much to ask.
Why isn't it too much to ask? Because the majority of people actually possess these traits. Enough of this crap about society being selfish, greedy and egotistical. I believe that people are inherently good, caring about others as much as (or more than) they care about themselves. Some will say that this optimism about people is naïve or ignorant—I think it’s ignorant to think otherwise. Call me easy to please, but I am ultimately satisfied with nearly everyone I meet.
And when I’m not satisfied, I move on. I don’t believe that you should lower your expectations to prevent disappointment. If someone disappoints you, it should only propel you to raise your standards for the next person you meet. Because unless you’re looking at someone like James Franco (sexy, talented and smart? Okay, he just might be perfect), there’s always going to be someone who surprisingly surpasses your expectations.
So, while I’m waiting for that person, I will continue to maintain my high standards. And I can only hope that everyone else does, too. My expectations may not always be met, but at least I know that when they are, that person really does meet them. I won’t re-locate my foul line closer to the net—I’d rather wait longer for someone to make the shot from half court. And I know someone will.
Friday, February 25, 2011
15 Things That Inexplicably Freak Me Out
1. The ball of dried up lotion that forms over the opening of the lotion bottle pump. Whenever I rub my hands together and feel it between my palms, a shiver travels from deep inside my gastrointestinal tract, up through my esophagus, and out my skin. I have to flick it away as quickly as possible, not caring where it lands, as long as it’s no longer on ME.
2. The hard, dried-up edge of a piece of cheese that’s been sitting in the fridge too long. I have to make a 2-inch diameter cut around the end of the dryness just to eat it—and by then, the provolone has completely lost all its integrity.
3. Eating a too-long piece of spaghetti, not being able to swallow it, and then feeling it sliding allllll the way up my throat as I’m pulling it out.
4. Crunchy peanut butter. In high school, I once traded my turkey sandwich for my friend’s peanut butter and Fluff. We have creamy peanut butter at home, so when I bit into the sandwich and instantly crunched on something that I irrationally thought was my tooth, I was traumatized by the crunchiness of the Jiff for life. (This is sad—I used to love crunchy peanut butter!)
5. Q-tips reaching too far into my ears and touching the back of my throat. I don’t know the exact physiology, and maybe it doesn’t ACTUALLY touch the back of my throat, but it sure as heck feels like it.
6. Orange circus peanuts. Hello, gag reflex.
7. The skin that forms on top of cooling hot chocolate. When I was younger, I used to go Christmas caroling with neighbors. When we got back, the hostess always made us hot chocolate—which should be in quotation marks, because there is NOTHING hot chocolatey about heating up Turkey Hill 2% lowfat chocolate milk in a saucepan over the stove. Not only is the flavor just off, but if you leave your cup alone for .02 seconds, this skin develops over the surface that you have to peel up and put on the edge of your cup. Ew.
8. The word “moist.”
9. Congealed oatmeal. Just today, I made myself oatmeal and got distracted and forgot to eat it. When I returned to the once-steaming, delicious bowl of Splenda-and-cinnamon hearty goodness, I saw that it became a cold, Splenda-and-cinnamon bowl of jellied oats and water. The surface of oatmeal shouldn’t bounce when you lightly touch it with your spoon, right? Growing up with the “don’t waste ANY food!” mentality, I braved one slithery, slippery bite of oatmeal (that had no business being called “oatmeal”)—and no more.
10. The water in the cottage cheese container before I stir it. Sure, it stirs up in 2 seconds so I don’t have too long of grossed out-ness, but that slightly-off color liquid in the middle of the container really just makes me wonder…what, exactly, am I eating?
11. The feeling of falling off the bed when I’m going to sleep. I realize it’s some kind of scientific, explainable thing, but I just hate it.
12. The rubbery yet hard cartilage nub that catches me completely off guard when eating chicken. It just bounces between one’s teeth in such an undesirable way. (Note: I don’t think this should be considered “inexplicable,” because I really don’t know if anyone would NOT be grossed out by that.)
13. The stringy things on the roof of my mouth when I burn it on a hot piece of pizza. (Yes, you all know what I’m talking about.)
14. Getting a paper cut on the tip of my finger. The paper cut itself isn’t what bothers me—it’s the process of actually feeling the edge of the paper slicing through the top layer of my skin that just sends chills through my body.
15. Accidentally swallowing my cough drop.
2. The hard, dried-up edge of a piece of cheese that’s been sitting in the fridge too long. I have to make a 2-inch diameter cut around the end of the dryness just to eat it—and by then, the provolone has completely lost all its integrity.
3. Eating a too-long piece of spaghetti, not being able to swallow it, and then feeling it sliding allllll the way up my throat as I’m pulling it out.
4. Crunchy peanut butter. In high school, I once traded my turkey sandwich for my friend’s peanut butter and Fluff. We have creamy peanut butter at home, so when I bit into the sandwich and instantly crunched on something that I irrationally thought was my tooth, I was traumatized by the crunchiness of the Jiff for life. (This is sad—I used to love crunchy peanut butter!)
5. Q-tips reaching too far into my ears and touching the back of my throat. I don’t know the exact physiology, and maybe it doesn’t ACTUALLY touch the back of my throat, but it sure as heck feels like it.
6. Orange circus peanuts. Hello, gag reflex.
7. The skin that forms on top of cooling hot chocolate. When I was younger, I used to go Christmas caroling with neighbors. When we got back, the hostess always made us hot chocolate—which should be in quotation marks, because there is NOTHING hot chocolatey about heating up Turkey Hill 2% lowfat chocolate milk in a saucepan over the stove. Not only is the flavor just off, but if you leave your cup alone for .02 seconds, this skin develops over the surface that you have to peel up and put on the edge of your cup. Ew.
8. The word “moist.”
9. Congealed oatmeal. Just today, I made myself oatmeal and got distracted and forgot to eat it. When I returned to the once-steaming, delicious bowl of Splenda-and-cinnamon hearty goodness, I saw that it became a cold, Splenda-and-cinnamon bowl of jellied oats and water. The surface of oatmeal shouldn’t bounce when you lightly touch it with your spoon, right? Growing up with the “don’t waste ANY food!” mentality, I braved one slithery, slippery bite of oatmeal (that had no business being called “oatmeal”)—and no more.
10. The water in the cottage cheese container before I stir it. Sure, it stirs up in 2 seconds so I don’t have too long of grossed out-ness, but that slightly-off color liquid in the middle of the container really just makes me wonder…what, exactly, am I eating?
11. The feeling of falling off the bed when I’m going to sleep. I realize it’s some kind of scientific, explainable thing, but I just hate it.
12. The rubbery yet hard cartilage nub that catches me completely off guard when eating chicken. It just bounces between one’s teeth in such an undesirable way. (Note: I don’t think this should be considered “inexplicable,” because I really don’t know if anyone would NOT be grossed out by that.)
13. The stringy things on the roof of my mouth when I burn it on a hot piece of pizza. (Yes, you all know what I’m talking about.)
14. Getting a paper cut on the tip of my finger. The paper cut itself isn’t what bothers me—it’s the process of actually feeling the edge of the paper slicing through the top layer of my skin that just sends chills through my body.
15. Accidentally swallowing my cough drop.
Friday, January 7, 2011
"I was woken up this morning by the massive sound of everyone dropping their new year's resolutions" --David Spade
Every New Year, I make the same resolutions. Lose weight, bring up my GPA, and read more books. And every year, they're broken by Week 1. This year, I decided to go with resolutions that may be more easily feasible.
Ingrid's 2011 New Year's Resolutions
1. Don’t drop anything in the toilet.
2. Learn something other than a bad karaoke version of “I Will Always Love You” with which to serenade my roommates while in the shower.
3. Try to limit my shoe shopping to just one pair of hot pink heels.
4. Stop gorging on pokey sticks, pizza, Chinese takeout and Ben and Jerry’s every weekend with the justification that “calories don’t count on weekends.” My skinny jeans are now telling me “yeah, they do.”
5. Broaden my horizons in the kitchen—and stop considering “adding an egg to the Ramen Noodles” to be sophisticated cooking.
6. If I’m going to take the bus, it has to be for longer than just one stop. Unless it’s raining. Or snowing. Or exceptionally cold, windy, cloudy, or anything other than 70-degree sunny skies.
7. Stop using the excuse of “having a good hair day” for not going to the gym.
8. Change my sheets.
Ingrid's 2011 New Year's Resolutions
1. Don’t drop anything in the toilet.
2. Learn something other than a bad karaoke version of “I Will Always Love You” with which to serenade my roommates while in the shower.
3. Try to limit my shoe shopping to just one pair of hot pink heels.
4. Stop gorging on pokey sticks, pizza, Chinese takeout and Ben and Jerry’s every weekend with the justification that “calories don’t count on weekends.” My skinny jeans are now telling me “yeah, they do.”
5. Broaden my horizons in the kitchen—and stop considering “adding an egg to the Ramen Noodles” to be sophisticated cooking.
6. If I’m going to take the bus, it has to be for longer than just one stop. Unless it’s raining. Or snowing. Or exceptionally cold, windy, cloudy, or anything other than 70-degree sunny skies.
7. Stop using the excuse of “having a good hair day” for not going to the gym.
8. Change my sheets.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
A Letter To My Readers
Dear Readers,
I'd like to thank you for reading my blog since I started it a few months ago. It's encouraging to know that my writing is being enjoyed! But I would love to see some comments or "likes" on my blog posts. Having those small bits of encouragement directly on my blog really motivates me to keep going. Also, if you would "follow" my blog (you don't even need your own account!), that would be awesome too, just so I can know how many of you are reading it.
Thanks so much for all the support! You guys are great, and I would love to be able to go back to past blog posts to see who liked them and what I can keep writing about!
Enjoy your Thanksgiving, and keep reading!
Love,
Ingrid
I'd like to thank you for reading my blog since I started it a few months ago. It's encouraging to know that my writing is being enjoyed! But I would love to see some comments or "likes" on my blog posts. Having those small bits of encouragement directly on my blog really motivates me to keep going. Also, if you would "follow" my blog (you don't even need your own account!), that would be awesome too, just so I can know how many of you are reading it.
Thanks so much for all the support! You guys are great, and I would love to be able to go back to past blog posts to see who liked them and what I can keep writing about!
Enjoy your Thanksgiving, and keep reading!
Love,
Ingrid
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Sisters Are A Girl's Best Friend
When we were little, my sisters and I would parade around the house with a newly-finished cardboard toilet paper roll, holding hands and singing our made-up song: “Toilet Paper! Toilet Paper! Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo! Toilet Paper! Toilet Paper! Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo!” until we were completely exhausted.
We have a home video documenting a particular episode in which Kristina, my older sister, actively took the lead in the parade. I was in the middle, happily following along but not really paying much attention and Laura, the youngest (about one year old and still with no speaking abilities—I must say, she has made up for that by now), struggling to keep up on her stubby little baby legs. Laura had a peculiar habit of breaking away from my grasp to step on an old book—I believe it was Anne of Avonlea—that was lying on the floor of the blue-and-black tiled foyer (my parents have since replaced that unpleasing tile with a black and white checkered floor, a feat that took almost an entire year to complete). She would make sure to get both feet on the book, raptly staring at it, and then run off to find her older sisters again. At one point in the festivities, I nonchalantly swung Laura around the corner of the living room (luckily covered in a cushiony, light blue carpet) a bit too quickly, causing her to lose balance and fall over. It wasn’t until she cried out that I even realized it, and Kristina—ever the big sister—commanded, “You go first. I’ll hold Little’s hand,” becoming the new middleman between Laura and me.
The video ends there—I’m sure my dad could only take so much—but that five-minute clip is one of the earliest documentations of not just the relationship, but of the individual personalities of the Krecko sisters, which remain in full effect to this day.
We’ll start with Kristina. As the oldest sister, she takes the lead. She is the one who keeps Laura and me going around and around the house, never ceasing. When I came to college, Kristina was already a junior. She lead me in college life—helping me study, be motivated, and not be so alarmed when my exam scores weren’t as good as in high school. We went to the library together, ate together in the dining hall, and she let me stay over when I was having roommate problems. Her senior year, she cooked dinner for me (a generous gesture, considering she had to buy her own food AND actually cook it—something a college student rarely likes to do), let me hang out with her friends, helped me find research labs, and was constantly sending me emails and Facebook messages about different studies, labs, academic opportunities, and grad school information. Kristina guided me through college life, and without her, my grades and study habits wouldn’t be nearly as good.
Laura is two years my junior. She and I have a goofier relationship than I do with Kristina (Laura and I used to skip down the aisles of the grocery store near our Michigan summer house chanting “Beefaroni, Beefaroni shh!...Beefaroni Beefaroni shh!”—and this was at an embarrassingly old age). Now, I have replaced Kristina as the older sister in college, and Laura has taken my shoes as the wide-eyed freshman who has no clue what to do.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Her slightly obsessive need to step on the abandoned book in the middle of the floor foreshadowed her current desire to succeed—in everything. Like Kristina, Laura is an intense undergraduate who seems to be born with the ability to study ad nauseam. So when she came to college, my little sister did not need my advice on how to study (I needed hers!); she needed my guidance for how to have fun. I take her to parties, make sure she gets on the lists at frats, convince her that it is okay to go out despite an exam on Monday. Just how I bridged the gap between Kristina and Laura in our toilet paper extravaganza, I still come in between them to balance out the intensity. And I know that if there’s something I can’t help Laura with, before I send her careening to the floor, Kristina will tell me to get in front so she can take Little’s hand.
As for me? I’m still that typical middle child, the Type B between two Type A personalities. As different as I am from my two academically-oriented, science-loving, concentrated sisters, I get along with them better than I do with anyone else. My sisters are my best friends, as they have been since the days of our toilet paper parades, and they always will be.
We have a home video documenting a particular episode in which Kristina, my older sister, actively took the lead in the parade. I was in the middle, happily following along but not really paying much attention and Laura, the youngest (about one year old and still with no speaking abilities—I must say, she has made up for that by now), struggling to keep up on her stubby little baby legs. Laura had a peculiar habit of breaking away from my grasp to step on an old book—I believe it was Anne of Avonlea—that was lying on the floor of the blue-and-black tiled foyer (my parents have since replaced that unpleasing tile with a black and white checkered floor, a feat that took almost an entire year to complete). She would make sure to get both feet on the book, raptly staring at it, and then run off to find her older sisters again. At one point in the festivities, I nonchalantly swung Laura around the corner of the living room (luckily covered in a cushiony, light blue carpet) a bit too quickly, causing her to lose balance and fall over. It wasn’t until she cried out that I even realized it, and Kristina—ever the big sister—commanded, “You go first. I’ll hold Little’s hand,” becoming the new middleman between Laura and me.
The video ends there—I’m sure my dad could only take so much—but that five-minute clip is one of the earliest documentations of not just the relationship, but of the individual personalities of the Krecko sisters, which remain in full effect to this day.
We’ll start with Kristina. As the oldest sister, she takes the lead. She is the one who keeps Laura and me going around and around the house, never ceasing. When I came to college, Kristina was already a junior. She lead me in college life—helping me study, be motivated, and not be so alarmed when my exam scores weren’t as good as in high school. We went to the library together, ate together in the dining hall, and she let me stay over when I was having roommate problems. Her senior year, she cooked dinner for me (a generous gesture, considering she had to buy her own food AND actually cook it—something a college student rarely likes to do), let me hang out with her friends, helped me find research labs, and was constantly sending me emails and Facebook messages about different studies, labs, academic opportunities, and grad school information. Kristina guided me through college life, and without her, my grades and study habits wouldn’t be nearly as good.
Laura is two years my junior. She and I have a goofier relationship than I do with Kristina (Laura and I used to skip down the aisles of the grocery store near our Michigan summer house chanting “Beefaroni, Beefaroni shh!...Beefaroni Beefaroni shh!”—and this was at an embarrassingly old age). Now, I have replaced Kristina as the older sister in college, and Laura has taken my shoes as the wide-eyed freshman who has no clue what to do.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Her slightly obsessive need to step on the abandoned book in the middle of the floor foreshadowed her current desire to succeed—in everything. Like Kristina, Laura is an intense undergraduate who seems to be born with the ability to study ad nauseam. So when she came to college, my little sister did not need my advice on how to study (I needed hers!); she needed my guidance for how to have fun. I take her to parties, make sure she gets on the lists at frats, convince her that it is okay to go out despite an exam on Monday. Just how I bridged the gap between Kristina and Laura in our toilet paper extravaganza, I still come in between them to balance out the intensity. And I know that if there’s something I can’t help Laura with, before I send her careening to the floor, Kristina will tell me to get in front so she can take Little’s hand.
As for me? I’m still that typical middle child, the Type B between two Type A personalities. As different as I am from my two academically-oriented, science-loving, concentrated sisters, I get along with them better than I do with anyone else. My sisters are my best friends, as they have been since the days of our toilet paper parades, and they always will be.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
An Open Letter to the Overzealous Voice Box
Dear Boy Who Has No Concept Of Whispering In The Designated Quiet Areas Of The Library,
Here I am, sitting in my favorite room of the library. I have neatly and carefully laid out my books, binders, notecards, pens, Fiber One bar, coffee and water bottle in very specific locations around the perimeter of my seat according to both my to-do list and anticipated metabolic needs. Highlighter poised, I have begun my first assignment, ready to enjoy the peaceful, quiet environment conducive to memory retention and concentrated diligence.
And then you walk in.
You enter quietly, seemingly harmless, yet beguilingly dangerous. Sauntering around the room, you sneak peeks down at the students already sitting, trying to catch someone’s curious—and usually irresistible—glance upward to see who is walking by. You choose a spot a few tables down from where I have set up camp, nonchalantly clunking your backpack onto the table with an echoing thud, and sit down.
I notice that it takes you a small fraction of the time to pull out a book, wide-ruled notebook, and pencil (I notice that you don’t even bother with the triviality of a highlighter) that it took for me to prepare for my studyfest daylong, but shrug off this first sign of trouble. Maybe you’re just a light packer, but nonetheless just as studious as the rest of us. For the next three and a half minutes, all is well. You start reading your textbook, and I blithely go back to mine.
And then your buddy walks in.
First comes the obnoxious high five-turned-handshake that, upon impact, smacks the palms of your hands together just a little too loudly for comfort. I, in turn, snap up my head, bracing myself for what’s next.
“Yo man, what’s up?” I hear you say, loud and clear. Your friend, surprisingly, mutters an inaudible response, and I hope that maybe his “learn by example” method works for you. However, you thrust out the adjacent chair, bang the table with the palm of your hand, and utter the dreaded phrase I had been praying not to hear:
“Aight, let’s do this effing assignment.”
Can you please explain to me why the loudest person in the library is also the one who always, always does homework with a friend? You proceed to rant for 15 minutes about how you just can’t get this one differential equations problem because the foreign TA with his unintelligibly thick accent can’t teach for his life, and on top of that, you didn’t get to hook up with the hot chick from your Bio class last night because her boyfriend was watching you like a hawk the whole time, but it’s okay because you almost landed the cute girl from the gym, but she left too early and you were too wasted to follow her—oh yes, Mr. Obnoxious, I can hear everything.
Do you see people casting subliminal glances your way, politely saying, “Excuse me, we can hear you and it’s annoying?” Or do you simply think we’re all just checking you out, because you look especially good today?
Either way, I don’t understand why you want the entire library to know about your love life—or, as it seems, lack thereof. I keep hoping that you’ll suddenly become aware of your surroundings, alertly embarrassed for having caused such a ruckus (not to steal Richard Vernon’s favorite word). Or maybe your friend will subtly hint that you two should move somewhere else. But as I keep listening, I hear no prelude to a halt in your noisy oblivion.
The worst part is, I want so badly for you to be quiet so I can go back to my work undisturbed, and yet I find myself raptly listening to the unfolding adventures of your drunken, loveless Thursday night. You have me trapped under your loud, disturbing, disgustingly inconsiderate spell—after all, what could be more fun than silently eavesdropping on a stranger’s pitiful evening? Certainly not the neuronal pathways of a frog’s sciatic nerve.
But now, I suddenly realized that my studying has come to a complete standstill for the last 20 minutes, and something must be done about you. You have distracted me long enough, Oh Loud One, and it’s time for me to put on my big girl pants and ask you for some volume control. I apologize in advance for so brazenly calling you out on your overzealous larynx, but a nerd’s gotta do what a nerd’s gotta do. Hopefully in the future, you will remember the little library frequenters who actually use the building as a place to silently concentrate, and gossip while lifting weights—the clanking and whirring machinery might better muffle your venting sessions than do the flipping of pages and furious scribbling of pens. Thanks in advance.
Sincerely,
A Silent Studier Who's Losing Patience
Here I am, sitting in my favorite room of the library. I have neatly and carefully laid out my books, binders, notecards, pens, Fiber One bar, coffee and water bottle in very specific locations around the perimeter of my seat according to both my to-do list and anticipated metabolic needs. Highlighter poised, I have begun my first assignment, ready to enjoy the peaceful, quiet environment conducive to memory retention and concentrated diligence.
And then you walk in.
You enter quietly, seemingly harmless, yet beguilingly dangerous. Sauntering around the room, you sneak peeks down at the students already sitting, trying to catch someone’s curious—and usually irresistible—glance upward to see who is walking by. You choose a spot a few tables down from where I have set up camp, nonchalantly clunking your backpack onto the table with an echoing thud, and sit down.
I notice that it takes you a small fraction of the time to pull out a book, wide-ruled notebook, and pencil (I notice that you don’t even bother with the triviality of a highlighter) that it took for me to prepare for my studyfest daylong, but shrug off this first sign of trouble. Maybe you’re just a light packer, but nonetheless just as studious as the rest of us. For the next three and a half minutes, all is well. You start reading your textbook, and I blithely go back to mine.
And then your buddy walks in.
First comes the obnoxious high five-turned-handshake that, upon impact, smacks the palms of your hands together just a little too loudly for comfort. I, in turn, snap up my head, bracing myself for what’s next.
“Yo man, what’s up?” I hear you say, loud and clear. Your friend, surprisingly, mutters an inaudible response, and I hope that maybe his “learn by example” method works for you. However, you thrust out the adjacent chair, bang the table with the palm of your hand, and utter the dreaded phrase I had been praying not to hear:
“Aight, let’s do this effing assignment.”
Can you please explain to me why the loudest person in the library is also the one who always, always does homework with a friend? You proceed to rant for 15 minutes about how you just can’t get this one differential equations problem because the foreign TA with his unintelligibly thick accent can’t teach for his life, and on top of that, you didn’t get to hook up with the hot chick from your Bio class last night because her boyfriend was watching you like a hawk the whole time, but it’s okay because you almost landed the cute girl from the gym, but she left too early and you were too wasted to follow her—oh yes, Mr. Obnoxious, I can hear everything.
Do you see people casting subliminal glances your way, politely saying, “Excuse me, we can hear you and it’s annoying?” Or do you simply think we’re all just checking you out, because you look especially good today?
Either way, I don’t understand why you want the entire library to know about your love life—or, as it seems, lack thereof. I keep hoping that you’ll suddenly become aware of your surroundings, alertly embarrassed for having caused such a ruckus (not to steal Richard Vernon’s favorite word). Or maybe your friend will subtly hint that you two should move somewhere else. But as I keep listening, I hear no prelude to a halt in your noisy oblivion.
The worst part is, I want so badly for you to be quiet so I can go back to my work undisturbed, and yet I find myself raptly listening to the unfolding adventures of your drunken, loveless Thursday night. You have me trapped under your loud, disturbing, disgustingly inconsiderate spell—after all, what could be more fun than silently eavesdropping on a stranger’s pitiful evening? Certainly not the neuronal pathways of a frog’s sciatic nerve.
But now, I suddenly realized that my studying has come to a complete standstill for the last 20 minutes, and something must be done about you. You have distracted me long enough, Oh Loud One, and it’s time for me to put on my big girl pants and ask you for some volume control. I apologize in advance for so brazenly calling you out on your overzealous larynx, but a nerd’s gotta do what a nerd’s gotta do. Hopefully in the future, you will remember the little library frequenters who actually use the building as a place to silently concentrate, and gossip while lifting weights—the clanking and whirring machinery might better muffle your venting sessions than do the flipping of pages and furious scribbling of pens. Thanks in advance.
Sincerely,
A Silent Studier Who's Losing Patience
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