Let me get one thing out of the way: I like Butler.
And I don't mean "It's the only reason I haven't flunked out of college, so I suppose that would mean I like it" like it. I actually like Butler—its high-ceilinged, dim-lit, academic sort of majesty, the quiet, the community of hundreds of caffeinated college students shuffling through papers together.
But I think anyone who frequents Butler knows what I mean when I say that there's a point in a Butler night where things start to fall apart. It's the fourth, maybe the fifth hour—you've clacked through a few pages of your paper and are pretty sure you can finish a problem set before 2 a.m. hits. And then you start to feel a little weird.
