7:02-7:30 p.m.: Finish bag of Doritos only to make the mistake of reading the ingredients. Suffer in shame spiral while feverishly licking chip residue off of your fingers.
7:30-8:00 p.m.: Send group text to all of your friends: “so fucked for this paper lol.” No one responds. Send them all an angry-face emoji so they know that you're mad at them. Sigh loudly.
8:00-8:30 p.m.: Google “good paper titles”. Then Bing it. Then Ask Jeeves. Search for a funny GIF with which to comment on a friend's Facebook post. Notice the bearded old man sitting next to you, playing a video game on one half of his screen and watching an anime video on the other.
8:30-9:30 p.m.: Write one sentence that includes the words “dialectic” “binaries” and “phallocentric”. You killed that sentence! Congratulate yourself by spending 58 minutes perusing all of the recently added items on ASOS.
9:30-11:00 p.m.: Read a bunch of links your mom sent you about hookup culture at college campuses.
11:00-12:00 a.m.: Meet up with friends in Butler Café so you can all complain to each other about the work you're not doing and how expensive the tiny sleeves of pistachios at Butler Café are.
12:00-1:00 a.m.: Read a Thought Catalog someone posted on Facebook about whether or not Miley Cyrus is racist. Seriously think about that for a while.
1:00-3:00 a.m.: Two more pages! Decide you'll treat yourself to your favorite Beyoncé song. Forty minutes later, you've watched the entire visual album, along with multiple interviews of Beyoncé and Jay-Z. You've also looked at multiple artists' renderings of a grown-up Blue Ivy, and Pic Stitched them together.
3:00-3:05 a.m.: Inadvertently succumb to a five-minute nap/ fever dream featuring your hot TA doing dirty things to a bag of Westside cookies, all narrated by Virginia Woolf. What would Freud say? You wouldn't know, because there's no SparkNotes for the Freud Reader.
3:05-3:10 a.m.: Make a terrifying, cross-eyed face at the beard guy, who may or may not have been rubbing his crotch for the past hour.
3:10-4:00 a.m.: Final stretch. Your conclusion is crazier than a compilation of Amanda Bynes' tweets and you're pretty sure you misspelled Foucault, but at least it's finished. Consider CAVA-ing yourself for a free, speedy trip from Butler to McBain.