...and this close to it still being crossover hour?!
A library user was playing Taylor Swift's "Love Story" out loud and singing along, accompanied with giggles and shrieks. The otherwise silent area was unsure of how to address the situation.
"That's just embarrassing," one onlooker said to no one in particular.
Suddenly, the culprit became aware of her actions. "I'm totally humiliated!"
The reporter on the scene had reasons to believe that it was a dare, as the girl resumed her activity minutes later.
An uprising took place within the 25 Decibels. "Can we save Taylor Swift for the shower???"
The doors push in. STOP TRYING TO PULL THEM. You will only fall (as I once actually saw happen).
A haiku to help you remember:
eager to join friends/ you pull on study room door/ fucking dumbasses*
*Please be advised that TFTF does not take credit for this work of creativity.
I, too, am constantly frustrated by study sessions in the Frisc. I never seem to get ANYTHING done. I don't care if you and your friend want to roll on the floor laughing. Go ahead, answer your phone. I don't give a fuck.
But if you and I have ever been romantically involved, can you PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY - FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO STUDY?
Every goddamn time I'm here, there's some awkward run-in.
It's the guy I hooked up with last night, I've been wondering if he was going to call but it's too soon after the hookup to know for sure. Here we are, awkwardly conversing by the stairs about the paper he has due tomorrow for some obscure AmCiv seminar. Awkward awkward awkward.
It's the guy who I'm hooking up with but didn't really feel like seeing tonight, now he wants to know what I'm working on and when I'm going to be leaving. As if.
It's my ex, who I used to run into here all the time when we were a thing. Guess I should've thought to negotiate who gets Frisc-rights post-breakup.
I'm here, and I'm consumed with who the fuck I'm going to run into this time. Who of my portfolio of awkward relationships is going to appear out of nowhere while I'm struggling to staple that zillion-page article?
The worst part? I'm here to STUDY. I look like complete and total shit. If you want to run into me at a frat party, fine. I'm prepared. Sluttified. Made up. No dark circles.
The thing about Frisc collisions is that you can never anticipate them. Or prepare yourself. They will find you after you just messed up your hair in academic frustration. After you rubbed your eyes, smudging mascara across your undereye. You're bloodshot. Broken out. Washed out under the fluorescents.
So why don't I just give up coming here, you ask? I'm a sadist. As I write, I'm surreptiously sneaking glances at a boy I made out with last Halloween. FML
There is an odd trust system that develops within the confines of the Frisc. We ask perfect strangers to keep an eye on our laptops and we share our personal space as we crowd at the computer table. Consistent Frisc users return to the same location daily, creating a de facto Frisc posse. We may not acknowledge each other outside of the SciLi’s walls, but in here, we smile at each other as if to say, “I feel your pain.”
You get glared at for answering your phone in the 00s.
The greatest impact of unseasonably warm weather can be seen in the Frisc. The moment Providence hits 55 degrees and sunny, sitting in the Frisc becomes unbearable and studiers feel as if they cannot miss out on the beautiful weather. Normally crowded hours - like the post-Sunday brunch block - become quieter and an air of depression sets in among those who are forced to stay inside the Frisc. Sitting here, in our wheely chairs, staring at the glowing computer screens, all we can do is talk about how beautiful it is outside and how we are completely missing out.
So this is for you, Frisc bathroom. You're killing me here. You bolt a bare fluorescent tube on each side of the mirror, it's going to look like backstage in Guantánamo's dressing room. You're washing your hands after your fifth mugful of totally necessary coffee sends you hurtling in there to empty your bladder. You stand there, rubbing that translucent pink industrial soap on your hands, and you DIE. Every pore, every imperfection, all of the sorry streaks of redness veining your eyes from exhaustion and caffeine: it's all there for you, marvelous and loathsome.
At the same time, that inhuman light somehow perfectly captures the depressing, cold grossness of the pools of water stagnating around the sink, not to mention each sorry wad of paper towel or toilet paper littering the floor. You were wrong, Jean-Paul. Hell isn't other people. It's this mirror.
This is not what I need, Frisc. I expect better. Make a girl feel proud to be up at 3 a.m. on a Thursday, staring at the blank Microsoft Word page where her French paper ought to be.