A Love Letter to Mugar

Dear Mugar,

I love you.

Others may call you ugly, they may dread going to visit you, they may avoid you like a Greenpeace sidewalk spokesperson with swine flu, but they don’t know you like I do.

They don’t know your secrets. Like the thrill that comes from sneaking in coffee while walking rapidly behind someone else. That a 20 minute power nap on a pile of books gives you more energy than 20 Red Bulls. How walking through a deserted fifth floor can turn on the motion-activated lights in each aisle.

Others claim that they have found superior places to study. But in my room, my bed tries to seduce me and Panera and Espresso Royale only want me for my money. And though you do charge me a ridiculous .50 for every day a book is overdue, I know it’s just because you want me back.

Yes, I have almost lost trust in you before. Like during The Great Bomb Threat of ’08 when in the middle of finals weeks, you kicked me out onto the streets. And though you slap my hand when I try to print too much, temporarily take away my first-floor bathrooms, and make me open my backpack on the way out just enough so that I have to stop and zip it back up, you are still always there.

Because you understand that only an ambiance of fluorescent lighting, cement walls and soft whispers can get me working like no other. Because you are always there for a late night booty call. And sometimes you even drive me home afterward.

So Mugar, with another hellish finals week around the corner, I know you will be there to watch over me. I have spent two and a half years in your loyal embrace, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Though it would be nice if you paid for dinner once in awhile.

Love,

Heather