Whitman Library is a dimly-lit den of stress and dark wood. There’s a palpable tension in the air, the bleary-eyed malaise of people on their academic grind. Now, right in the thick of thesis season, both occupancy and tension are pretty high. And when it’s crunch time I guess you have to claim your territory. I guess you become a hermit in this sad, sad place.
Some of them stake out their domain by cementing it over with impenetrable stacks of books.
Others have more brutish methods.
This used to be the nice clean little nook at your right when you enter; by Friday night, it was thoroughly co-opted by hermits. When I examined the premises there looked to be at least 2 days worth of accumulated foodstuffs: a couple jugs of Wa iced tea, various brands of potato chips, peach rings, a lone Cheez Doodle, three different kinds of soda, and the following horrific tableau.
Bread, chips, cereal, milk, and lotion — apparently the standard diet of the thesis hermit (tableware courtesy of Whitman Dining Hall). These hermits seem to have developed an ideal means of reserving their space, because while some might be willing to clear out a desk full of paper, I don’t think any rational human would consider stepping foot in this lair. Given the general squalor I wouldn’t be surprised if there was also a cup of pee sitting somewhere, marking the territory wolf-style.