(I am a freshman at a university in Utah. My university’s library has three floors. Even though it is a college library, students who are parents still bring their kids along with them. A lot of the time, these parents can’t control their kids or just don’t care to. Normally, though, the top floor is supposed to be kid-free, so I go there. It’s midterms, and I am trying my best to finish a six-page paper, when suddenly a mother brings in three of her kids, sits down, and starts working. After around ten minutes her kids start running around, making fart noises, and screaming. I try my best to focus and ignore them; I even get up and move to the opposite side of the library. The kids continue to run around, wreaking complete havoc, for thirty minutes. When I’m finally done, I walk over to the mother at the table where she’s just typing away at her laptop with her headphones in. I tap on her shoulder.)

Me: “Miss, are these your kids?”

Woman: “Yes.”

Me: “You realize the third floor is supposed to be kid-free, right?”

Woman: “Yeah.”

Me: “And?”

Woman: “I don’t care. The only spot I could find downstairs didn’t have a place for me to charge my laptop.”

(I manage to glance at her battery, and she’s full.)

Me: “Well, I know you have headphones in so you can’t tell, but your kids have been running around creating a lot of noise and just being distracting.”

Woman: “Well, I didn’t manage to get a sitter.”

Me: “So, you just thought, ‘Let’s bring them to a university library and distract everyone else during one of the most stressful times of the semester.’?”

Woman: “I have to study.”

Me: “Yeah. And the twenty other people up here also have to. I get that being a parent and going to school is rough, but this floor is supposed to be child-free. I’m sorry you want to keep your laptop plugged in even when it’s fully charged, but please be courteous and think about those of us who came here to get away from children.”

Woman: *now looking pissed off* “You have no idea what I am going through!”

Me: “I have three nieces that live with me at home that produce a lot of noise. I come here to get away from that and focus. I would never be so selfish as to bring them here. Please, be courteous and go to one of the other two floors.”

Woman: *rolls her eyes* “Whatever. You’re not in charge.”

Me: “Fine. I’ll go talk to one of the librarians who will tell you to leave.”

Woman: “Fine.”

(She left, but before she did, she screamed out, “F*** you, bitch!” I just laughed and said, “What a great example you are for your kids.”)

(I’m working at the reference desk at the library when the phone rings.)

Woman: “Can you look up [Town thirty miles away] and tell me what it says?”

Me: “Okay… and what information are you looking for ‘it’ to tell you?”

Woman: “Just, like, where it is and what [Town] people are like. What does Google say?”

Me: “You want to know what the people are like? I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing Google can tell me.”

Woman: “Well, there’s a Camaro for sale there, and I just want to know if the people in [Town] are trustworthy, or if it’s a backwater with trashy people.”

Me: “I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing Google can tell me.”

Woman: “So, you’re not going to help me?”

Me: “I can tell you the population of [Town] and where’s it’s located… but that’s about all I can help you with regarding the backwateriness of that town.”

(I ended up telling her the populations of several towns around the state at her request, apparently at random, before she was satisfied enough to hang up on me.)

We just had a library patron come in specifically to thank us for helping her print her resume last week. She got the job!

Immediately afterward, another patron came up to tell us that they’d accidentally puked in the drinking fountain.

(I am a customer in this story, doing some work in the public library because it’s usually quiet at home. This library has special Microfilm computers which are free to use for people to look up family history, etc. I am sitting on a desk next to a free one when a middle-aged lady with a walking stick comes to the end of the aisle and starts complaining to a member of staff.)

Lady: “It’s not fair that all the machines are being used! Someone should move!”

(I’m a little confused, because I can see a number of free machines, but I take it that this lady wants a particular one and is hoping if she complains loud enough, someone will move and she’ll get it.)

Library Staff: “There more machines over there.” *points to the other end of the room* “Or, if you’d like, you can go over to the search desk and they’ll be able to look it up for you. Is there anything in particular you’d like to look for?”

Lady: “No, I’d like a machine to use. It’s not fair when other people use them or students come in and use them. These machines aren’t meant for them!”

Library Staff: “The machines are for public use, and if students are using them for their intended purpose, then they can use them. If you’re not willing to use the machines over there, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

(An elderly man tries to help and point her in the right direction to a free machine, but she just gets angrier.)

Lady: “FINE! I guess I’ll just go and have a walk round, then, if that’s what you want! Honestly! The nerve of some people!”

(She starts to hobble towards me, sees the empty machine, and pounces. I think this is the end of the whole thing, but she turns and says.)

Lady: “See? Someone obviously heard me complaining and left because they were afraid they were in the wrong. It’s not about how or what you say, it’s about how threateningly you can say it! And if that doesn’t work, hit them with your cane!”

(She then proceeded to go about her work and left me alone, but I couldn’t help but think what an entitled a** she was. And they call my generation “snowflakes.”)

In middle school, my class takes a field trip to a major government library to research a history project. It’s worth mentioning that at the time, I am a bit of a punk-y tomboy. They have some very sensitive and valuable documents inside, so everyone is required to go through a metal detector before they can enter.

Most of the class goes through with only minor hiccups, like forgotten change or house keys. Then I go through. The detector beeps, and I’m confused because I only have a cheap necklace on that I was sure wouldn’t set it off, but I remove it anyway and try again. Again, the machine beeps.

This prompts me to have to go through every pocket I have — quite a few as I like wearing cargo pants — and after a few more failures I even leave my emptied coat with the guard. Still no luck. Finally, they break out a wand to try to pinpoint the issue. The wand is silent until they get to my shoes, where it starts beeping madly, and I realize with horror that I completely forgot that the boots I’m wearing are steel-toed. The guards immediately break out laughing, as no one even considered the idea that petite, blond, thirteen-year-old me would be wearing men’s work boots.

I wasted about fifteen minutes of everyone’s time in the end, and my classmates teased me for weeks about being a shoe-bomber. At least they didn’t take my boots from me!