You can find Jack and I in the UVU "green" library almost every single night (except for Sunday boo hoo hoo) reading the "shit" out of "books." Wait. No quotations around BOOKS. We read so so so much. I think reading is a great escape, like sleeping, but in reality (what IS reality, really? in all reality, what is it?) reading and sleeping are the opposite of escapism... depending on what you read and who you sleep with, of course. Through great writing and messed up, wacky dreams, we confront reality all of the time. We confront difficult, baffling, absurd questions. I think the real escape, the true mindless escape is through television and US Weekly. And sometimes religion. And certain intoxicants. Not that escapism is necessarily a bad thing. There's a time and place for everything, no? I wish I could speak more intelligently about this, but alas I feel rather uniformed and uneducated on such matters. I suppose this is when I go to the bookshelf and pick up a few books and start reading and lo and behold I will magically transform into a well-informed babe with a brain. Boy. What am I even talking about? Just rambling. Just tired and wired ramblings.
Here's something that bothers me about the UVU library... Well, first of all, it's as cold as "SHIT" in here. Green my ass. Also, they vacuum the "SHIT" out of this place. Every single night we are here, four or five international students (who are seriously so cool... I guess I didn't have to mention they were international students, but I did and there is NO BACKSPACE KEY ON THIS KEYBOARD!!!) start vacuuming and emptying trashcans and wiping down desks and eying me suspiciously. I realize that they are just doing their job and that I am just easily annoyed and that I am just chronically paranoid, but can't a girl just have an absolutely silent, non-Arctic experience while she is reading books about body dysmorphic disorder? I guess not.
Fun fact: In his practice, Freud eventually had a patient who would today be diagnosed with the disorder: Russian aristocrat Sergei Pankejeff, nicknamed "The Wolf Man" by Freud himself in order to protect Pankejeff's identity, had a preoccupation with his nose to an extent that greatly limited his functioning.