The Secret Study Scene: Part Deux

Author’s Note: First, allow me to apologize for the tardiness of this blog post. It’s really unacceptable, the height of rudeness. Thank Deputy Managing Editor J-Bomb for nagging me into punching through the bacchantic Brunonian wine-mist that’s stained this blogger’s brain. She takes things serious when I take ‘em Sirius. The fall equinox was the 23rd; summer’s officially gotten dressed and left without a word. Adieu Dog Days, adieu. Luckily, hair of the dog is a cure not bound by season.

My dear, this week’s secret spot is one with a view. It’s a spacious room that boasts two large windows: one, with an aesthetic downtown skyline view, and the other, a lush peek into groomed treetops. There’s a plasma television you can hook up to your laptop for studying that Intro to Sleep PowerPoint (or watching Bored to Death), a sizeable table, and an overall sense of personal fiefdom. An opulent oasis in dense drudgery.

There is, as with most pretty things, a catch. The caveat is that this room is not tucked away down some rambling cobblestone street on the Hill. It’s very much accessible. So to make this space your own, you’ll need just a little lie. A tiny pinch of truth-kneading. We won’t tell.

Step One: Make up a class. I usually go with BSB1995—Quit Playing Games With My Heart: The Circulatory Systems of Mammals.

Step Two: Get a sheet of white, eight by twelve paper. I like to crumple it a little for authenticity.

Step Three: Scrawl the name of the class and write that the room’s been reserved. Jot it down like a cocky doctoral candidate TA who wears horn-rimmed glasses and thinks it’s okay to tell you to tease out or unpack your idea.  And you’re like “dude, I saw you at the GCB sketchin’ hard, so don’t talk to me like I’m adopted.” Oh yeah, and tape the sign to the door.

Step Four: If anyone is undaunted by your sign and invades your pillow-fort-esque Bastille, then you, my sweet, must give him the mean mug.  No words –  just eyes. He’ll leave.

Step Five: Enjoy your clandestine asylum, situated among the cubicles and resistant to the potent stench of anxiety. You’ve earned it.

1 Comment

  1. Sam Levison

    Deputy *Managing Editor

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