An open letter to the girl chewing Fershire Farms baby-cut carrots in the library
It’s perfect here. The lightbulbs are soft white and fluorescent, both migraine-friendly and environmentally conscious. The plush leatherback's exactly nine inches off the floor, with a back angled at 87 degrees - an ergonomic masterpiece, which I know from my first-year seminar on seating furniture. Plus, I’m precisely the ideal distance from that hot hipster who once said I had a cute sneeze, so it doesn't seem like I’ve been stalking him since fall break (I haven’t - it’s been much longer than that). I’ve been trying to find a spot like this ever since Yale law school became a way too-real reminder of my now distant aspiration to become a state senator, which I was sadly forced to abandon after Halloweekend decimated my gpa.
I’m really at my wit’s end. You have no idea what I’ve been through. Let me walk you through it: I drag myself out of bed after a night of regrettable decisions, gulp down last Thursday’s Starbucks, head over to the library, and proceed to spend the next 40 minutes looking for a place to sit until I stumble upon this gem, realizing that in my enthusiasm, I’ve forgotten my felt-tip purple pen, which I obviously cannot function without. So, I walk all the way back to my off-campus apartment (in the rain, mind you, so my hair now has its own zip code)
I get back, slightly traumatized, but the venti triple-shot soy caramel macchiato’s rushing through my veins (I know, I’m one of those), laptop’s at 97%, and I’m finally ready to begin my six-page paper for Cybersecurity on Mars that was due 4 hours ago. But then chomp chomp chomp Chomp CHOMP. I’m trying to think of aliens and ransomware, but all I can focus on is goddamn chlorinated baby carrots being ground into orange slush. Couldn't pick a more obnoxiously loud food, could you?
I hope the beta-carotene's worth it, asshole, because thanks to you, I can't go to Woads tonight. Not like I would have done anything anyways, but at least now I’ve got someone to blame.