I'm sitting at computer number 24 in my college's library wondering where the hell the person to the right of me went. He, or she, has left a two fifths drunken, or is that drunk, bottle of Transform--as in transformers--your summer Pepsi beside a small open, and as far as I can tell, pretty much empty can of French's Potato Sticks, next to a rather decent size box of moist wipes--of which I'm forced to conjecture, based on the size of the box, and the absurdity of its juxtaposition to the other items--that this person is either a neat freak, or oddly sick (for to be drinking pepsis and eating potato sticks at a computer at school when sick seems odd to me), all in front of a blank screened computer 25 (of which I cannot say if its off, logged out, or on screensave), and some lined papers which best I can read due to some attrocious handwriting, contains a list of three reasons why some countries are wealthier than others. For a moment I decide to touch the mouse, or at least the closer, less conspicious of a reach keyboard, to inspect what possible pearls of wisdom must lie therein for this person's lists to contain such vague sentaments as "authority" and "organization," especially when worker 25's area seems to suggest that this person has been here for quite some time. In fact, closer inspection reveals sporadic placement of potato stick fragments, and a few pieces of thin paper I'd assume to either be the aforementioned wipes, or kleenex of mysterious origins. As for that screen again, would I then be so surprised to find a masterful essay, in spite--something that fully justifies the intriguing disarray of space 25, or something equally pointless yet incidentally mesmorizing? Might there be games he or she was playing, or spreadsheets she or he was working--an online encyclopedic database if not a database of raunchy tasteless or dare it be tasteful stories of erotic or pornographic detail--or perhaps, as shocking as it may seem, something as minute and dumbfounding as simply the desktop itself--littered with the same old icons and black void of a background as yours truly would find on his computer 24. I almost checked you know. I streched, and thought about it. There's a teenie bopper blonde at computer 27--thin, pony tail, googling her brains out. Her clothes, to no surprise of mine, complete that most superficial of stereotypes--the Abercrombie girl--the champion of genderization. What more do we need than giant pictures of half naked men and women stroking their chests and finely tuned stomachs to implant into the minds and souls of our children the most superficial and pointless perspectives on life. I wonder what she'd think if she read this. I can here her defenses going off--and perhaps shes write. I don't judge, I simply observe, and don't act until they act, and confirm or deny what I've seen as sound or unsound. Yet even she must be curious. Though in fairness, she's never once looked at the blank little screen on 25. But what's this? She's leaving? Adorned with a bracelet and sunglasses at night, and a sheet of makeup so delicately applied to her face yet ironically smothering it? Maybe now I'll have the chance to see who and what is next to me. There are still people around me. There's someone in the back, reading. Could it be 25? There's a person to the left of me too--two screens down. He's a young man with a backwards black cap, and a white shirt--casual for what he looks upon. Best I can tell its foriegn policy. He's actually doing work while the blond gets googled, and I rant on about trivialities such as a screen and a box of potato strips--or at least one that once held them. But no! She stays. And what's this? A rent-a-cop is patrolling now, as if almost to read my ever progressing thoughts of dementia. But he's gone. To where, I cannot say. My mind jests that perhaps he put this set up here, perhaps out of boredom--the same boredom that fuels me writing this here--to screw with me for fun while I writhe in torment. I can't take it. I won't take it. And there! See her leave. The googled blonde has gone and 25 is all mine! I touch control on the keyboard--an ironic choice at that and see a flash of white before I turn left and right to check if my deeds had been seen. The person behind that was reading now stands too--a girl with a raspy voice, fiddling with papers. Through the corner of my left eye I see her red shirt. Through the corner of my right I see the lit screen. What's on it? I dare not look. I must wait. Move! Move vile woman! Leave this place. But what's this? Oh god no. Is it? Could it be? Not here. My god it is. The legend itself--herself--number 25. She stands there and fumes both an intoxication of perfume and unknown emotion--both quite suffocating. I type along nervoursly, though emitting nothing but confidence and determined writing as if to say and think nothing of it. I care not if she saw or if she knew. For I know now the secret of 25! Or I will as soon as I--NO! NO you horrible cosmetic ridden vermin! How dare you log off! How dare you close shop and stand to go as if to say "I will not be discovered. You will die without satisfaction good sir, 24!" Look how she cleans her area. Look how she swipes those potato specks and takes all away. Its spotless now. Its clear and void of all notice she was there. I watch those few papers soar as she marches away with a high heeled strut triumphant regardless of intent or conscious. And as she marches away out the door--out of reason and reassurance, I look over to see screen 25, the log in windows display standing there ready and proud, as if also to mock me, and say, with a grin I swear was there only minutes before, "Sorry. Game over for you 24."