There's a man sitting in the Merrill-Cazier Library at Utah State University. Dark clouds roll outside, and the temperature is dropping to forty degrees. Snow graces the peaks of the mountains, a dark omen for a cold winter since it's arriving at the end of September, and not at least a month later when it's expected.
This man is clothed in polished earth-colored leather shoes, strikingly ironed black slacks and a pinstriped sky blue shirt, the collar creased just so precisely halfway along its length. A pair of round, direct spectacles sit on his parrot nose as he stares intently at, well,
The Statesman. Scourge of proper grammar, disdain of the English major, and harbinger of insignificant drivel. The
campus
paper.
This image is so strikingly awful in his well-measured hands with trimmed fingernails that I can't help but writhe silently in disgust.
Because, you see, he's sitting three feet to my right.
And I'm fairly certain he has no idea I'm writing about him. He's too absorbed in
"What Sally Ate For Breakfast, and Why You Should Eat It Too Because You're A Fat College Student"
or
"Yet Another Article About Young Mormon Couples"
or
"How Frikkin' Awesome Our Football Team Is"
to notice my prose on the gross irony of his apparel and his reading material. He needs to pick up a copy of a Charles Dickens novel and find himself a good brick fireplace to read next to with a hound dog slumbering at his feet. Have some class, bro.
