Update on Clay Babies Mystery

WhenToWork.com message from David Bottorff  forwarded at your request.

Hi all,

I'm sending this message out in case anyone knows anyone involved in distributing the plaster casts of dolls/babies/cupie angels throughout the bookstacks this year.

If you do, I'd ask that you pass on the message that this is actually quite a dangerous thing to do, given the chance of one of these falling off a shelf and hitting a patron or (more likely) a student shelver. Last year, one of our student employees was almost hit on the head when a plaster doll fell from a shelf and shattered on the floor.

I'm not interested in knowing who's doing this or even knowing if you speak with anyone about it. I understand the temptation to leave odd little "easter eggs" for others to discover in the stacks, but in this case the eggs are 5 lb lumps of plaster and could seriously injure someone.

If you find any of these in the stacks while shelving, please bring them down to me (I've got a couple of examples sitting on top of the shelves in my office). If you know anyone who's leaving these "gifts" please ask them to stop. I don't want any of you or anyone else getting hurt, and I'm sure they don't either.

Thanks,
David

Despite my dripping sarcasm in the last post, the Clay Babies are real and nasty, people! They're up and about, waiting to scare the bejeezers out of unsuspecting patrons in the Bookstacks. Ha!

University Library Seized By Clay Babies

CHICAGO,  May 18: The Joseph Regenstein Library bookstacks of The University of Chicago is seeing an increase in abnormal activities with the latest Clay Babies mystery. The Bookstacks Department headed by David Bortoff claims to have uncovered twelve clay babies planted amongst the library collection to date. Bortoff has reason to believe there are more Clay Babies "lying out there in the stacks, waiting to pounce and shock people with their crazy smiles and wide open baby stub of arms".

These white, identical baby figurines are believed to have been made out of paper machete (in which case its name would be a misnomer) or more likely, clay. 

Search Services Assistant, Christopher Straughn found two clay babies while doing his rounds early yesterday morning. A frazzled Straughn expresses his concern for the potential hazard Clay Babies may bring since "some had been planted on top of the moving shelves on the B-level and fell on patrons. " However, Straughn does not speculate the culprit has malicious intents, perhaps just a "morbid and horrible sense of humor".

A Cage Management Assistant who refused to be named insists "it must be the work of some weirdo lady who has nothing better to do", claiming condemnation by the feminist factions of the student body who is "sick of people almost always immediately pointing fingers to the likes of cat ladies, creepy lady stuck in 80s clothing and them 'hos."

A student employee reports that "[she] thought students getting it on in the stacks is pretty awkward, but these fugly babies are just plain sick."

"Totally creeeeepy!", another lamented.

Fondly known as The Reg, this library bookstacks is already home to major nerdy conversations and self-introspection in the form of wall graffiti that defeats social conventions and norms. Inglorious remarks are made upon the self with reference to Dante's Inferno, au contraire to common youth speak such as "FML" or "fuck this shit and that shit." One dark corner on the second level clearly speaks for the University culture as cost curves, cost functions, production-cost frontiers and supply and demand graphs grace the walls.

During the school's winter quarter, the library hosts the controversial, annual Athletics Team "Naked Streak", opening all floors to an orgy of skin, giggles and to some, terror. Acts of coitus is also common in the bookstacks and this alludes to the perverse eroticism that must lie within the walls of this brutalist and otherwise boring architecture.

And now, perversity continues to reign as Clay Babies terrorize bookshelves, fall on patrons, disrupt peace and inculcate fear amongst library frequenters. Bookstacks personnel, clearly paralyzed by the emergence of Clay Babies are considering organizing a strike in the lobby if  "this crazy sensation does not stop."

The library is home to 4.4 million  print volumes, making it one of the largest repositories of books in the world. It is open to the general public every day and visitors may request a free day pass at the ID and Privileges Office.

Econometrics Can Give You the Tics

I, sweetheart to Sheldon Cooper, PhD, am willing to engage in coitus (ha ha) and explore the worlds of causality of the said demigod in Big Bang Theory. Observe my love for Dr. Cooper as manifested in this bold (and senseless) experimentation with statistics:

Let's talk some Stats crap. It is seen here that Cov[Score|Study]= 0, thus implying that Corr[score, study]= 0 (There is no correlation between score and studying). On a more serious note, God forbid!

Catty Interlude

The calming effect of a 21-year old rendition of a cat and a dog on a yellow sticky note.

Not!
Week 6, "you sak, you sak!"

p/s: If I may, a little inspiration to think about where your place (and what your purpose) is in the world: http://www.thegatesnotes.com/Default.aspx

pp/s: Oh hey, it's little miss-at-large's 100th post! Not too shabby for someone with a little ADD (aka hangat-hangat tahi ayam-ity) on the sides. 

Crunch Time, Mak-time

A cup of harmless (or so I thought) Cappucino kept my mind on a non-stop, 3 hour replay of variables, constants, alphabets, assumptions and models last night (or morning to be exact). Hilariously enough, these were things that escaped me this morning, when I needed them most.

One by one those dreadful letters and numbers just up and left, abandoning me in my combat against all things evil in fiscal and monetary policy. I try to tell myself, "I am not alone, I am not alone, I am not alone". I am not alone, am I?

As of the moment, that is what I am, alone. Alone in threading 6 pages worth of words and the harvest of thoughts I have gathered over the course of 11 weeks. It's okay, words are easier than letters that when combined, don't make sense. At the end of the day, words penned down well earn me a warm heart.

Statistics will then conquer my time, the minute I raise my fingers that have done away with its typing. As the clock strikes 8.30pm tomorrow, another journey will be revisited. Some numbers to run, a few papers to examine, and a hell lot of typing to be done.

Then? The struggle ends there. Full stop. Just as sudden as it came. I pray I have enough strength, courage and faith to go on. Amin.

"Scandalous Lives of UChicago's Elite"

I have not slept in my own bed for the past 4 nights. Scandalous much, right?

It is in fact, a scandal in it's finest form, I tell you. I have been spending my cold nights huddled up in someone else's space, on someone else's bed. Wait, you're not going to tell anyone, are you? Please don't. I have to live up to my heavily Muslim name (Nurjannah Iman Syaqirene) you know.

What's that you said? I didn't quite hear you. Oh, you don't know what my name means? I don't know if I should tell you. Well, well, it's for me to know and for you to find out. Let's leave it at the fact that I probably don't live up to my good name as much as I want to.

Yeah, man, especially now that I'm sleeping with someone else.

Oh yeah, you heard me right. I'm simply enjoying my intimate nights with a certain someone. Someone by the name of Joe.

There is no more incredible feeling in the world than losing yourself in the arms of a strong man while he indulges your every sense. To see, to feel, touch, to taste, to smell. Uh-huh, we do all that, Joe and I.

Halt! Don't jump the gun just yet. I don't smell smell (or sniff, make of it how you want) him, his feet or that certain part of the human anatomy I'm sure you are thinking about. Nor do I touch whatever you think I do. You have despicable thoughts, sheesh.

What exactly am I intimating, then? Well, you know, the innocent stuff. To see is to look into the other's eye. To touch is to feel the warmth of the other sitting right beside you. To taste is . . . to literally, bite into your guilty pleasures of chocolates and sins. (Gotcha there, didn't I). And to smell is to smell another's presence beside you, just from the way his clean, crisp clothes smell, or the noticeble scent of his perfume.

But what I love most about Joe is that he understands my intellectual pursuits and the sacrifices I make for them. He doesn't mind that we are surrounded by obnoxious, loud people. All he wants to do is just blanket me with his warmth and whisper encouraging and sweet, sweet thoughts into my ears. It tickles me, feeling his hot breath against my sensitive ears. But it's a feeling like. No. Other. (to emphasize just how that feeling felt like no other).

For the most part, Joe accommodates my search for ideas and entertains my nightly thoughts about making a difference in the world. I talk, I type, while Joe sings and Joe writes. What does he write? He writes the most meaningful missives, left on tables after tables so that I can read his words and remember his presence wherever I go. He is romantic that way, you know.

Ah, what a fresh new world you show me, Joe.

Because of that, Joe, I'm devoting 5 more nights with you. 5 more nights with you, and I will soar high above the horizons as you take me to places I have never been, Joe. 5 more nights of just you and me. Yes, you and me, Joe. How can life get any better than this?

For all this, I heart you Joseph Regenstein.

Picture courtesy of forums.nutsie.com

His name, in full, is Joseph Regenstein Library, folks. Of course we play SAFE, need you even ask?

Disclaimer: Euphemism. Self-explanatory. The chirpy tone, and sensational foreplay? Nothing but a twisted version of the sad, (and really twisted) things I actually do and will continue to do at Joseph Regenstein Library. It's true I haven't been sleeping in my beloved bed the past 4 nights, though. I sleep IN Joseph Regenstein Library, indeed!

Kadang Kala, Tahi Berlaku

This coming January, I'll be ditching the harsh Midwestern winter for the sun and all its glory in Cape Town, South Africa. Good for me, right? Yeah, awesome possum. But the possum isn't so awesome when what ensues the prospect of participating in study abroad programs is the arduous task of subleasing my apartment.

Mind you, it is not as easy as publishing friendly ads online and slapping eye-catching posters around campus while you goyang-goyang kaki and wait for those e-mails to flood your inbox. Especially not in the aftermath of the credit crisis and a shaky real estate market in Hyde Park, Chicago, coupled with the fact that less students transfer to the UofC during the winter quarter (who in their right minds would trade their comfort zone for deep snow that loses its novelty after a week and the awful wind chills that chap your lips and crack your skin, right?).

And especially not when you are a susceptible victim of deceit of one of those *tooting* Nigerian scams. Especially not that *blood pressure rising, temple throbbing*.

Did I just lose you at "Nigerian scam"? Are you nodding your head now? Never heard of a "Nigerian scam"? Well today is your lucky day, because with the powers personal experience has vested upon me, I will brief you about those *tooting* schemes.

In my college, this Nigerian scam phenomena is so prevalent that you're a social leper if you don't receive their emails. Congratulations to myself, because in a field I would rather not, I am not a loser. I used to receive an average of 3 fraud emails a week. The emails begin and end with extremely polite salutations involving the use of God's name in vain, perhaps to latch you on with their *cough*fake*cough good manners.

The conman then establishes himself/herself as the legal attorney of si polan who has just passed on and would like to honor si polan's wishes by granting you an X sum of money as testified in si polan's will.

It's entertaining and indeed laughable to think I am suddenly related to a good 20 plus people in Africa (presumably Nigeria) or that I can become a millionaire overnight without lifting an eyebrow. (Mungkinlah I have a penchant for sexy African/African American men, but I'm pretty sure the last time I checked I am born and bred a Malaysian Malay (ha ha)). It's even more entertaining to think that these people think people can be had.

Realizing that half the world are chuckling at their petty stratagems, these lowly creatures are now penetrating the online sales market. They scour sites like craigslist, ebay and college marketplaces and pretend to be interesting in buying and selling.

They pretend to be innocent, non-smoking female college students studying in UK who are transferring to The University of Chicago and are looking for a place to sublet. They also pretend to be the naive young girl who needs daddy to write the eager tenant a check and who waits for daddy to present her with ultimate directives.

Oh, don't worry, the only money I've lost over the weekend was to a Juicy Couture purse (handbag for the non-initiated) and 3 pairs of new shoes I don't need (damn those Black Friday sales). Receiving a check for $4500 signed by a different payer (not Laura Baily or Martin Scott) from a bank in California when I asked for $600, while the FedEx was delivered from Maryland when daddy is in Essex just points to something fishy that I can smell 10 000 miles away.

What I've lost was the time and effort spent over a long, week-to-week correspondence with an imaginary Laura Baily and her daddy, Martins Scott. What I've lost, is apparently my common sense; because how on earth did I not realize that daddy should have been a something Baily? What I've lost is my fuse because right now I want to kentut in the faces of the a-holes behind these nasty ruses.

Learn your lesson from my lesson learned: Bad english (beyond the common "that's mean" or "oversea") is a telltale sign of a scam. Especially when the foul language is coming from someone who's presumably "English" and residing in Essex, UK.

 

Date: Wed, 25 Nov 2009 20:07:25 -0600
From: Martin Scott
Subject: RE: Payment received!
To: 

Hello Nurjannah,

    I thank you for your email and am happy that you finally got the payment.The payment was sent to you from my client and he made mistake of forwarding the whole amount($4500) to you. He should have sent to you a month's rent and security deposit and have the remaining sent back to my Travel agent so as to book for laura's flight and some other traveling expenses that will be incurred.
  
      Thanks for the mail and your honest transparency, the funds you got was to secure the unit for my Daughter and i hope you are aware she will be taking unit for a period of 12 months or more ?
 I will need part of the funds to get her flight booked as am on a business trip now to secure my goods in transit and will not be able to make her flight bookings please deduct the first month's rent and the security deposit from the payment you received and send the balance via money gram money transfer to my travel agent so She will be able to get her a flight booked. She manages all our travel and tours through out the states,She needs the money to get Laura's flight booked and pay for other travel expenses that will be incurred.


Pls send money via money gram money transfer  to:

Name: Dorothy Beasley
Address:1260 Spring St NW
City: Atlanta
State: GA
Zipcode: 30309

Note that a transfer fee will be deducted from the funds you are sending

I will appreciate you help her out by putting her through as soon as she arrives in the States so she can get a bank account opened that way i will be able to send the remaining rent fee to her all at once when i get back from my trip ,so she can pay you on the first or each month or all at once pending on how you want the fee.


Please send the funds to the information above and email me the actual amount sent and the REFERENCE number and the actual amount sent.
As soon as i get the details i will forward you her flight itinerary so you can be aware of her arrival date and time .

Thanks a whole lot for your offer of accommodation i really do appreciate.


Martins.

                           A DEPENDABLE NAME IN ELECTRONICS WORLD

Oh, kadang kala, tahi memang berlaku. Well, I have the last word for now: "I'm honest and would not want to cheat you off your money". Ambik kau liar liar pants on fire.

Project Apartment 2009

The present me is nothing like the old me.

The old me, during her high school years, had boys to finish her woodwork for the practical component of Living Skills Studies. The old me got her sawed pieces done, only to find that she couldn't connect the pieces together because her "tanggam parit" was not level. She then miraculously found her project become Jack's. Jack, by the way, was a year older, and had no business whatsoever in the Living Skills workshop. Jack would cordon off some time for my woodwork and even recruited a couple of friends to help expedite the "Help Poor Nj's Ugly Woodwork Project".

The story did not not end there. My multi-purpose wood box was to come with a quilted cover. The beginning of the project was easy enough. I picked a cool-looking cotton cloth, I cut the pieces, quilted it fine, had the teacher trim the edges, but patience I had none when it came to fitting the cover over the woodwork. Off to a tailor in SS2 the cover went. And that, my friends, was how bad I was at all things practical.

But as I said, the present me is nothing like her old, inept self, especially after I find myself heavily vested in a pet project dubbed Project Apartment 2009.

Project Apartment 2009 was not an easy task. It began in April with a search for an apartment, and it couldn't just be the high-rise apartments most international students seem to prefer. I held fast to a dream of living in a quaint, walk-up apartment that was as far away from campus as I could get. Most students who embarked into the off-campus world would opt to live within walking distance from the quads, but I wanted to to be put up close to the lakefront (Lake Michigan).

5430 S. Cornell Ave, Apt. 5R possessed the fierce desires of my heart, and more. Papers were signed, fantasies began, and the project was flagged off.

The search for all things interior and secondhand was by all means long and difficult. But tenacity (and not to mention superior persistent bugging and bargaining skills) pays off, because my roommate Samina and I, both have a place we will be in love with until the day we leave school.

The new me, is someone who disassembled and re-assembled her secondhand furniture, from scratch. Armed with an Ikea toolbox (borrowed, and not yet returned, haha) and sometimes no instruction manual, I screwed, hit, twisted and pushed things into place. Sometimes it took an extra limb or two or required interesting squatting positions or laying down on pieces, and I did it all. Sometimes it took gentle hammering and patience to dislodge a piece while other times required simultaneous jumping, pushing and grunting. But it's all good.

The new me, is someone who painted a feature wall with her favorite color all by herself. For a first timer, it is a job well-done if I must say so myself. There are minimal smudges where the masking tape gave in to the paint, but otherwise I took the pains of wiping the paint with warm water when the stain was unbearable for this naked eye. The new me, is also someone who painted a full-length mirror just so everything in the room matches, and the white bare walls opposite the feature wall didn't look too boring.

The new me takes pride in knowing the different tools in the toolbox and praises the Living Skills curriculum for that. The new me is someone who thinks of playing engineer and tries to repair a broken DVD player, and then surprises herself completely when she miraculously does.

The new me has a home she sort of built from scratch, and she is proud of that.

The new me, unfortunately, is still too short to change a light bulb without a chair. Dammit!

 

Credits to Chong Han and Saleema Nawab for helping Samina and I transport our stuff on that rainy, gloomy day in June. Heartfelt thanks to Adam Johari and Kudzai Ndondo who spent days helping us carry everything in and out of the car or UHaul, via flights of stairs, firescape and spiral staircase and finally, into our home. Adam Johari and Adzwan Anuar also took this little kid to the funland called Ikea, and she owes them one.

Hugs to Samina Lutfeali who shared my ideals and built this comfortable home together. Special thanks goes to Maggie Chow and Huiying Chan for selling me a bulk of the furniture in my room. Project Apartment 2009 couldn't have materialized without these people. Grazie and gracias again.

Bopping to BEP, Finally

You may have seen this video on YouTube or Facebook, but I'm putting it here just to remind myself how lucky I am to be given the chance to study abroad, namely in Chicago, The Windy City. You should know that when my brother alerted me about the video this summer when we were lazing about and stalking people on Facebook, I had tears in my eyes. Tears of what? Of joy, of pride, of exuberance, of giddiness, of sadness that I missed it all . . . I don't know.

Although I bitch about the academic integrity, The Life of The Mind and the load of crap my school prides itself on, I am here, aren't I? I'm learning from the best set of educators, working alongside the creme de la creme from the world and over, and I'm living in a great metropolitan that offers me a wider perspective on what is the world. There is something exclusively awesome about getting the chance to be in Chicago, and I can't quite express it in words.

All I have to do is suck it up, hold my head up high, and make the most of my time here, not just thinking about making  the most of my time here.

p/s: I realized my past two entries have been centered around sourness, and I don't even recognize my usually chirpy (albeit annoying) self. I must have sounded unlike the happy-go-lucky person you think you know. But there you go, I guess there is more to me than the smile plastered on my face. But we all have our ups and downs, and I hope you don't mind me dwelling on my such phases.

The morale uplift I get from expressing my thoughts (even if it's a tenth of what I feel, and two-thirds of what I really mean) helps, and your readership keeps me alive and wanting to write, eventhough I don't write as often. Thanks!

Fall 2009: An Abridged Update Of My Sad State In Life

"Or we might talk about the other great nemesis of the bathroom cleaner--pubic hair. I don't know what it is about the upper American class, but they seem to be shedding their pubic hair at an alarming rate. You find it in quantity in shower stalls, bathtubs, Jacuzzis, drains, and even, unaccountably, in sinks. I once spent fifteen minutes crouching in a huge four-person Jacuzzi, maddened by the effort of finding the dark little coils camouflaged against the egg-plant colored ceramic background but fascinated by the image of the pubes of the economic elite, which must by this time be completely bald".

-Barbara Ehrenreich, Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By In America.

Loving this witty excerpt read for one of my favorite classes so far. Enjoying my Macroeconomic class' emphasis on the government and welfare. Hating the grades and time-consuming problem sets due almost every day of the week (but what else is new?). A liberal arts education doesn't get any better than this when it gives you a full spectrum of emotional flavors.

The angst of securing a summer internship kicks in, due to impending travel to South Africa in January. Not to mention the strain of living up to the gloating statements I made about not returning home for next summer.

Tears have been shed over personal matters (notwithstanding the fact that the event also occurs once in 30 days, as some acquainted readers would know). But life goes on, this time with the new Macbook soon to be in my possession. I was told by one good friend that "Once [I] go Mac, [I] never go back". This is too sexciting, after 7 weeks of living live without the desirable convenience of working wireless, whenever and wherever I please.

A jump for joy is in line, even if the struggle out of loneliness and proving myself worthy of the rigorous academic life never ends.

Oh, and you noticed? Yeah, I changed my blog layout, for the millionth time, I know.

5454 S. Shore Drive, Shoreland 606

A once 5-star luxurious hotel accommodating notable figures like Ernest Hemingway and Al Capone and beautifully located on the feet of Lake Michigan - this is what The Shoreland is. Chancing my eyes upon this 12-floor grandeur of 20's style architecture some time in September two years ago, I never expected it was going to be the place far away from home that I call home.

The Shoreland is a stellar example of beautiful on the outside and not-quite-beautiful on the inside. For a second, its exterior may fool you into expecting lavish, velvety tapestries, shiny glimmery chandeliers and plush red carpet. Once you step inside the lobby, you are left cold with the shattering reality of its dirty windows, peeling paint, loosen pipes and cracked floors.

There are "vintage" mismatched sofas flanking your left, shopping carts on your right, a TV corner and a harpsichord with missing keys on the far right, and a shabby reception desk before you electronically swipe your ID and consider yourself home. (What enigma holds behind the shopping carts? Left-over carts from the nearby Walgreen's and Treasure Island, possibly pushed over all the way to the Shoreland by lazy persons like me who think it's okay to leave a cart to be reused again and again, for the greater good).

Enter elevators - the kind that creaks and heaves, forcing you to pray hard that it would not crash down or get stuck like that movie called Speed that scared jack out of you when you were six. It is also the moody kind that selects the floors it wants to take you to; mysteriously leaving out the 3rd, 7th and 11th floor on many occasions.

The real thrill of exploring this rundown hotel of a dorm is felt as you navigate your way through childishly mural-painted walls. Each floor - all seven floors of houses - have adopted the mural way of life (pun intended), establishing house themes and colors to orient disoriented first timers into feeling at "dorm".

The sixth floor, my floor, happened to choose the worst theme of time travel, and possibly boasted the worst-skilled student painters. Images of distorted dinosaurs and the same moustached man in an astronaut suit, mexican poncho, roman robes one wall to the next will creep first timers like it did me.

Yet again, with every trivial detail, creepy mural and all, The Shoreland just grows on you. From the boiler that clangs all through winter and rudely intrudes your (okay, my) wildest dreams, its frequent annoying fire drills that magically always sets off at 3am, its falling-apart dressers and headless showers, to the dilapidated ballroom, The Shoreland earns your fondness. It becomes your home.

Next year, when greedy developers raze this beauty to the ground, or remarket it as a prime condominium completely removed from its identity, I will look upon the lake and smile to myself. I have indeed gained a place far from home that I call home. If not through pictures and legacy, The Shoreland will continue to live in our hearts.

Hakuna Matata

Hakuna matata. There is no problem. Especially if you really want something and you work for it. Sometimes in life, you just gotta do, pursue, harass, try, as hard as you can. God willing, all will come your way!

For example, you may just get a postcard if you harass hard enough for it, kan kan? (If you're reading this, you know who you are=p)

But now my latest obsession comes in the form of a Zimbabwean. Hah! Who would've guess? And if you didn't know, Cape Town is right next to Zimbabwe. So if you know what I'm talking about, you do the math. *Mischievous grin*

Jambo bwana. Nope, it's Swahili, not Shona. But I should pick up Shona, don't ya'll think so? (",)

Walimatul Urus

Encik/Cik/Tuan/Puan/Dato'/Datin/Tan Sri/Mak Sri/Tun/Tin,

This is weird. This coming Friday, I will have been married to a rich, pompous man with a frightening belly for many years now. Complementing him, I will be a pretentious, stuck up, middle-aged woman (perhaps approaching premature menopause) who is devastatingly silly in her speech and quirks. Laugh at me silly as I blow some poor man's ass off with a tiny (but loud) cap gun!

I Will Marry When I Want, by Ngugi Wa Thiong'o and Ngugi Wa Mirii. You are cordially invited.


(This isn't the official flyer)

A sneak peek of my favorite song in the play:

Tolong Saya, Bantu Saya

What do you call the closure of two 24-hour campus libraries when you need them most? Grave injustice! University libraries--as I'm sure is written in their unwritten by-laws--should strive to serve their inhabitants to their fullest capacities, especially when they have committed to a status of being 24-hour premises suitable for academic discourse and intellectual goals.

If fullest capacity means offering limitless space and time for the destruction of campus beings' social lives as they forego Friday night amusements (like pre-marital sexual pursuits, spectacular rounds of beer pong and getting high on them 'erbs) in exchange for solitude in an air-conditioned environment and contact time with thousands of last minute-readings, so be it. 

I, as one of the students raped from my rights to the use of these institutions tonight, am livid. President Zimmer, you may think it a wise and dignified move to actually force the student body to explore this other, obscure realm called "fun" and "time off", but all I ask of you is, why? Why tonight; when I am panic-stricken, fluid and sleep-deprived and worried sick of the 10 page paper I am fundamentally clueless about? 

This deprivation from access to resource and basic exercise of my human ways (in the university context, at least) must surely be a violation of human rights. I believe with entirety that my predicament tonight falls directly on the violation of one of the many rights listed on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. 

It should be. It has to be. It must be. My capability to function (as a typical student who turns in long term papers within two days of work) is irreversibly shattered tonight. Testimony to that is the time I have already wasted in writing this piece of nonsense, when I should in fact be working on the bloody paper. Be convinced, my accusations hold water! If it isn't, it must be implicit. Read between the lines. 

I call upon Amnesty International and other goodwill groups out there to please give light and voice to my plight. Allow me refuge under your umbrella. Give me my right to work the night away, while swallowing the bitter truth I am living the life accorded by the infamous UChicago creed "where fun comes to die". 

Return me my right to outstandingly fit into the image of a nerdy girl in this brainy institution "where the squirrels are cuter than the girls". Let me be that android, who goes with minimal sleep for a mere three days in her life to get all her shit (although belatedly) done.

Sigh, that's what I signed up for, didn't I?