Exorcises, exorcises, I must do my exorcises.

I just got thrown out of the Brenda Wallace room in a manner which fills me with the need to vent my spleen on all you poor unsuspecting and undeserving masses (who I'm pretty sure may only exist in my head).

I was the only one in the room and I was reading Chekhov's The Black Monk, when a perky woman came in and started moving the furniture around. At first I was irritated because she was wearing really loud shoes, but I just turned up my volume and ignored her. After about ten minutes she came over to my chair and tapped me on the shoulder (what I felt was just slightly too hard, and one time too many to get my attention).

"You'll have to leave now," says she to me.

"Excuse me?" says me to she.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Why?"

"There's a meeting going on in here right now. There was a sign about it on the door."

"There wasn't a sign when I came in."

"Well, you're going to have to go somewhere else now. The meeting is about to start."

I glance around, and indeed there is a table set up with sandwiches and the room has been converted from a quiet place to read into a loud place to meet. This is most inconvenient because there's nowhere else to read in this place where I won't be bothered. So I mutter something about this being a "pain in the ass" as I gather my things. She overhears me and responds that I have to respect the fact that meetings are held in that room, and this is not an irregular occurance, condecension oozing out of every pore in her body. So I tell her that she needs to respect the fact that I don't enjoy being thrown out of a place like I'm a troublemaker and being told that I'm "going to have to leave now." I felt like a drunk who stays past closing time, irritating the customers and fondling the women.

Have your meetings, I don't care. But don't patronizingly eject me from my peaceful sanctum.

There. My spleen is aired out and I feel better.