Maybe this claustrophobic rage is something akin to what lab rats experience, but I’m really miffed that the inhabitant of the Cage next to mine has decided to actually USE it. So far this summer, it’s just been me in the Cage — nobody else on this whole floor. It’s been great. It’s been 105 degrees up here, and for some reason I seemed to be the only one willing to sweat it out. But, today, there is no heat, only nice cool air conditioning. And then suddenly the next Cage over is occupied. Grr. So, what, did a memo go out? Sheesh. Now I can’t loudly burp, munch on carrots (oops, did I say that? No, not me, I would NEVER eat in a LIBRARY!!!), whistle, groan, etc. And, she keeps making loud rattling around noises with her books and papers, like she’s actually doing WORK which is really distracting me from my stuck solitaire driven state and turning me into a drooling ranting and raving monster that already hates her profoundly because she sounds like she’s getting something accomplished.
I just want to scream, “Hey, you little 12-year old (she’s young) German Literature Scholar, SHUT THE HECK UP and get out of MY CAGES. MINE!!!” (Inner Toddler emerges yet again.) And I love how somehow I have come to believe that all of this space was mine, not just the 3’x3′ space that is actually mine. Maybe it’s like body space — we Americans have like a football field of personal space that we feel most comfortable with, and I think mine extends well into the next Cage over. Do you think she’ll understand all of this when I explain it to her nice and politely at the top of my lungs?
(Did I mention that I finished that paragraph that has been torturing me this whole time? It’s total shit. But, it’s on the page and out of my head. And, yes, I’m now finally admitting that this whole angst thing was really about a paragraph. We grad students are such drama queens.)