We can all agree on some things: it sucks being tired late at night with loads of work left, everyone knows that. This is generally the case for me, as a biology and math double major. I’m not complaining, I know we’re all busy.
But when I’m up trying to get work done, I usually turn to the library or some other secluded location, and I know many of you do as well. The problem is that I define “work” differently than the majority of people. For me, it usually means a bio lab. For you, it’s that girl from two doors down with the ankle tats. And whenever I peek my head into a secluded library nook, you’re there, doing things with wooden chairs I never even thought possible or legal.
This isn’t just a one– or two–time thing. I could overlook an occasional staircase 69, or a one-time quickie on the Media Center desk. No, this is every single time I try to find a place to study. When did this happen? When did the library motto change to “Semen is a Renewable Resource”? All I want is to do my homework, guys. I’m not trying to find out that you have a thing about slipping a finger inside your man mid-coitus. In fact, that image is never going to leave me: the guy is my stats professor. The library is supposed to be a place to study, not your personal harem.
But I get it. You want your insides churned on top of a collection of Franz Kafka’s greatest works: fine. I was willing to be accommodating, try moving somewhere else. I went to the S.U.B for a while. That worked great until I found out that after 9 p.m., the ASUPS part of the building turns into that gross harem scene from 300. You all amaze me with your sexual creativity. I’d love to know at what point sex at Puget Sound truly jumped the shark: beds are too soft and comfortable and rational?
In pursuit of this academic goal, since bio is clearly not getting done, I asked a few female friends about why everyone wants to be boned in the most public, least comfortable places possible. Apparently, last week this very publication ran an article about exhibitionism and having sex outside of the bedroom.
I hope you’re happy, Harry Sasscrotch. Do you have any idea how malleable the minds of your readers are? As I asked around more it became clear that the Happy Trail is by far the most influential section of this newspaper. Every student I have spoken to now only has anal sex, owns a copy of the Kama Sutra and is in debt from all of the expensive STD testing.
Apparently I’m the only one who still enjoys sex in privacy and comfort. Back to the library with me, I thought: there must be somewhere still unstained. I hit what I thought was the most secret place in the library, those weird mechanical stacks in the basement that move around like some Harry Potter magic staircase. I wasn’t even angry to discover that each moved stack revealed a new and occasionally horrifying tableau of penetration and hedonism, like some terrible hedge maze on Dante’s fourth level of hell. No, not angry, just disappointed.
I’m disappointed in all of us. Friends don’t let friends go down on each other in academic spaces. Please, let’s scale it back a few notches. I really need to get that lab done.
