It is inescapable on college campuses. It’s in dorms, cafeterias, bars, elevators, unions. You name it, it’s there.

It’s called love. It’s young. It’s attractive. It’s the “I can’t stop looking at you/touching you/kissing you” kind of love that novelists and movie producers create for our entertainment. Apparently, it is the kind of love that college students think is appropriate to try to recreate across campus.

And let me be the first to say, it is really gross to look at.

It’s not that I don’t want people to be crazy in love. It’s that I don’t want to see people groping each other on my walk to class.

The worst offenders are ubiquitous. They’re in the AMU. The McCormick Dining Hall. Caffrey’s. They are even in the Schroeder elevators.

I mean really, the elevator? It’s four square feet!

I have been accepting public displays of affection without much complaint for the past three years. I ignore it at bars. I tolerate it in dining halls. I pretend I don’t notice it in the elevator (which is really awkward).

I will take it no more. I’m making a stand to preserve one last sanctuary. I demand that public displays of affection cease and desist within the walls of the library.

Prime example: the couple sitting at the table near me while I’m writing this. Since they can’t seem to read my mind, I really hope they read this article.

They are sitting on the same side of the table. He is gazing at her. She sits comfortably in the glow that only young love can create. The space between their chairs is narrow and it is impossible to distinguish his belongings from hers. Their hands are intertwined. They smile at one another, lost in each other’s eyes. She suddenly slides her chair back. His fingers loosen, but their eyes maintain contact. She indicates where she is headed, and he, apparently unable to withstand her absence, stands up too.

Oh my gosh. This is actually happening.

Giggly and giddy, they swing their interlaced hands the entire 15 feet it takes to get to the PrintWise station. She slides her card and looks back up at him. He is still gazing at her. She whispers something. He smiles. And then he leans down and kisses her.

Since it is 11 a.m., between classes and in Memorial, I am obviously noshing on a bagel. I immediately begin to regurgitate it. I try to turn back to my studies. But I cannot concentrate. I am simultaneously disgusted by their PDA and bothered that I even care. I do not know them – maybe this is their first love. Why should I be that cynical old senior disregarding their happiness?

But apparently I am that cynical and can no longer watch their happiness. As I pack up my belongings and head across the Bridge I fear I am already turning bitter. And I’m only 21. This is not a good sign. I start to make plans to go to the Humane Society and buy a litter of cats.

And then it gets worse: butt-touching.

The couple ahead of me is actually walking with their arms wrapped around each other, hands planted on their partner’s bottom. “OK,” I think, trying to rationalize. “I’m just overly sensitive to this now. It’s just a coincidence.”

As I hurry down the stairs in the middle of Raynor, I am stopped dead in my tracks. I actually wipe my eyes. This cannot be happening.

But there it is again. A third couple. And this one is lap-sitting in front of one of those big Macs. The giant screen is not enough to conceal their affection.

What is happening? Am I on the set of a soap opera? Because this much touching is most certainly not acceptable anywhere else.

I get it – we’re young. This is fun. I also understand the boredom and frustration studying can arouse. But I really do not think it should arouse anything else. Stifle that until you get home, or at least outside the turnstile. Seriously, anywhere else. Just please leave the library as one last safe zone.

Or maybe I should just start studying in my living room with my soon-to-be-adopted cats.