Your brain is foggy with faint visions of the 200 pages you skimmed, your iced coffee is watered-down, and you’re only 15 minutes into a 1 hour and 50 minute seminar. Sitting next to you is the sniffler who refuses to excuse themselves from the discussion to blow their nose. When class is over, DMV workers disguised as college students pack up as slow as possible and block your exit. 

At Commons, half the student body is lined up for dumplings and, guaranteed, you’ll have to sit directly in front of a complete stranger and monitor your eye movement with each chew. The way to the dish drop is just as congested: friends stop in the middle of Commons to gush about how badly they need to catch up (both parties made the conscious choice to not reach out, but things have just been so crazy you know?). 

After your last class of the day, you hang back at your suite. The couch would be a suitable choice for some intermittent brain rot if it weren’t for the mound of your suitemates’ jackets monopolizing sitting space. Maybe you’ll opt for the floor. Either way, don’t get too comfortable. Your upstairs neighbor is warming up for their a capella rehearsal and the guy next door has  recently taken up mixing beats. You might see him DJing at Leo this weekend if he makes it big. 

You’re ready to refuel after grinding out your psets and readings. Regardless of which dining hall you choose, a set of universal behavioral by-laws will ensure that your dinner is accompanied with a slew of minor annoyances. There’ll be folks who find it imperative to deliberate between Chicken Breast A or its identical twin Chicken Breast B when there are 30 people behind them in line. A miscreant of similar lineage will cut the line for water, stop to survey open seats in the hotspot of foot traffic, or decline to say thank you to any hospitality employees. 

After dinner, your weary soul might float to Bass. At Bass, library etiquette offenders strike right when you’re about to lock in. A phone call answered in full volume. A bag of chips being torn open. A debrief that can’t wait until the walk home. Unless you’re equipped with noise-canceling headphones, you’re defenseless against that armory. From Bass, you trek home and finally call it a night. The next morning, you’ll wake up to 10 alarms – not one of which is yours. 

Slow walkers, loud chewers, flakers, and the chronically late. Interrupters, mansplainers, and passive-aggressors. Snifflers and one-uppers, bad tippers and nose pickers. At Yale, there are no safeguards against imprudence. 

For every pet peeve, though, there is a footnote. I hate when people do that. When you do it – well, it’s alright I guess. 

I hate when people keep me waiting. I have no desire to stand in front of your entryway for any longer than 7 minutes. After 7 minutes, I’ll consider leaving. But I remember who’s going to come, eventually. I remember that it’s you. So, I’ll stay. It might be raining and my backpack might be getting wet, but my laptop case is allegedly water resistant, so why not. 

I hate when people sit on my bed with outside clothes on – I’ll go as far as to lay down a towel or offer a change of clean pants. But, when you come over, I don’t mind, I guess. Your butt has been sat in places I wouldn’t be too fond of – lecture halls, the Elm, frat house couches – but I like your sense of humor and niche music taste. So, I’ll cringe, but invite you to take a seat anyways. 

I especially hate it when people acknowledge my existence any time after midnight on a weeknight. I should not exist nor should I be perceived by anyone in any capacity when it’s that late. But when you knock on my door at 1 AM, an unrestrained “Come in!” creeps out. What could be more important than updating each other on our daily social slights, new developments in the plots of our love lives, and campus celebrity sightings?

Yale might not be immune to the national shortage of common sense, but you make perfectly good sense to me. You make walks nicer. Your jokes render me impervious to the sighs of people who agonize behind us over our pace. Take your time packing up; our peers should be sensible enough to squeeze around you or say “excuse me.” I admire your inquisition into the world of disc jockeys and reverb. It’s daytime – the people in your entryway can afford to excuse some muffled house music as they mindlessly scroll through Fizz. I like your attention to detail. Of course one chicken breast might have a grain of more seasoning than the one next to it. You make meals better. You might chew in that weird way that you do, but you – for all your charms, wit, and warmth – evoke the “pet” part of peeve. Please, keep peeving me out.