My lobby is much like a cross between a public park and the throne room on Mount Olympus. On the one hand, you are free to sit, people watch, and read to your hearts content, but should decide to sit in my throne, the two faux Victorian, gold and black upholstered slightly worn Pier 1 Imports loungers set up across from each other to serve as chair and footrest closest to the fireplace, I will unleash upon you a furious, unholy wrath in order to demonstrate my theocratic superiority and supreme dominance. I rule this lobby with an iron fist, commanding the circle of chairs that serve as both study space and respite from the constant stress of classes and exams. Though you may not know it, all who pas into the realm of the red fleurs de lys patterned carpet fall under my immediate jurisdiction.  I am supreme author of the Book of Lobby. Each day I decide who shall sit in a gold chair, who shall occupy the black with gold lattice detail, who shall have use of the recessed floor outlets, who shall perish by fire and who by water. My unspoken word is law, and those who fail to abide by it are sinners in the eyes of a vengeful French Major.

I have yet to determine the fate of the young girl sitting to my left. Foolishly, she took it upon herself to repose in my throne, and seeing it unfit in its current position, angle it away from the cast iron glass topped table. Yet her thievery knows no bounds. As if to mock me, she has gone so far as to affix her computer to an outlet (thankfully her ignorance extends far enough to cloak her eyes from the one beneath her chair, which I promptly put to use), ensuring her unbounded reign, not constricted by such petty obstacles as battery life. As I sit in an identical setup not four feet to the right, I cannot help but seethe with righteous anger and stinging embarrassment, the amble cushioning beneath my extremities doing little to mitigate the pain of exile.

I try to understand what might have possessed this girl to usurp my seat of power. Why, with a love seat, two couches and a plethora of other chairs at her disposal, did she chose my sacred altar? Surely she cannot be attuned to its innumerable secrets. Only a soul with my unparalleled cunning and distinct knack for creature comforts could have discovered the wonders of such a chair. With her stylishly clunky earphones so often preferred by the B- crowd, marginally outdated frames and colorless gray sweatshirt, this woman obviously lacks the necessary brainpower to exploit the myriad bounties that this lobby nook provides.

Yes, that is surely the case. Clearly she stumbled upon my sacred chamber of productivity and liberal elitist snark by accident, unaware of her grave error. Tapping away on a graphing calculator while simultaneously perusing a website of such little consequence that it fails to capture my interest, I give her a quelling glare of purest venom, the kind reserved for people who murder puppies and Newt Gingrich. Apparently unaffected, she continues her work, undoubtedly negating the effects of her worth ethic by dousing her ear drums in indie hipster tunes, where atonal is the new perfect pitch.

I resolve to keep a closer watch on the unassuming scholars who venture into my lobby. Should you be reading this, be forewarned that in the future, my mercy will not extend itself so generously, so tread carefully and know that you are here at the bequest of an all seeing, people watching French Major with no qualms in outting you in a semi-anonymous fashion. Save face, save my space.