The month might be nearly over, but Bwog isn’t done dishing out campus horror stories! This time, Senior Staff Writer and midterm victim Asya Sagnak expands upon an unexpected experience in Columbia’s favorite prison/library.
The clock strikes eleven. That marks your eleventh hour at Butler, desperately trying to save your GPA. You’re desperate, tired, and sad. The people around you are even worse – one girl has a rice cooker going, and multiple people seem to have just moved in.
Your head starts to spin, letting you know that you’re probably lacking fresh oxygen. You might be planning on spending the rest of your life in those dusty stacks, but your body seems to disagree. You check your progress – you could probably spare a minute to (literally) breathe.
You’re on your way out as you feel a hand on your shoulder. It’s a man, and he’s trying to talk to you. What’s he saying? You’re not sure – it’s been awhile since you’ve had human contact, and you might have forgotten to process language. He finishes what he’s saying and looks at you with an expectant smile.
“So… Can I have your number?”
What the fuck? What the fuck? Did this boy just hit on you in Butler? On midterm week? Right before midnight?
You’d heard about this sort of behaviour from horror films and old wives tales, but you never thought you’d experience it in the flesh. The more you think about it, the angrier you get – you have a midterm due tomorrow! Practically everyone in there does! Who has time to think about stuff like this?
Scariest of all, this means that there are people out there who actually go to Butler to pick up chicks. That ruins the whole point of Butler – how are you meant to study if you feel like you’re being watched and judged? How are you meant to enter that crucial no-sleep-only-coffee-looking-like-hell phase of essay development?
At some point, it strikes you that the boy is still waiting for an answer. It’s probably been like two minutes of you staring angrily at him, so you have to at least give him props for determination. But not today.
“Would you hit on a matador just as he was about to face a raging bull?”
“Would you ask for Hillary Clinton’s number just as she was about to step on the stage for the final presidential debate? Would you see a chemist dismantling a deathly bomb and think gee, this is the perfect time to woo them?”
“Okay… Chill. It’s no big deal, I just asked for your number. I’ll leave.”
“CAN’T YOU SEE THAT’S THE PROBLEM?”
It’s a whole commotion now. Even the international smokers are looking your way. You run back inside as fast as you can, but everything feels dirty now, like you’re being assessed with every step. There’s no way you’ll finish your midterm in time either.
Maybe it’s not too late to transfer to UChicago for the spring semester.
Your worst nightmare via Ivy League Lifestyle