The Daily Orange

Those sneaky little villains otherwise known as midterms snuck up on me last week and put me in a corner. The first outpost of defense, my house, had been overrun with distractions planted by the enemy.

First, there were two newly arrived video games, five bags of tortilla chips, new episodes of "South Park" and "Real World" and four roommates with nothing to do. But I had a home base to fall back on. In full uniform of jeans and a hoodie, I grabbed my pack and, like a noble Syracuse soldier, headed to the stronghold of studying: Bird Library.

But alas, I was deceived. The house of homework, the outpost of Adderall and the base of books had already been invaded by the enemy. Those powerful forces of procrastination had somehow already gained ground inside the fort.

A major chunk of the base's first floor had been overrun with a space for a "cafe." Do the commanders know about this? Apparently, our own commanders of the intellect approved this. It was supposed to be ready by now, but all it does is take up space I could be using to combat midterms.

But I was not to be stopped - I was going to dominate these midterms like Kanye crushing 50 in record sales. I surveyed the first floor and decided it was noisier than a dorm party about to get busted. There were fewer outlets for my laptop than in the Sahara and so many different kinds of people studying, it could have been the United Nations. I fled upstairs seeking a piece of solitude, like Thoreau heading off into the woods.

Second floor, no dice either: too many distractions in the form of periodicals (code for magazines). There were comfortable chairs, and they were booby-trapped. If you sit in them, you sink in like quicksand and fall asleep faster than a narcoleptic on Nyquil. I pressed on to greener pastures of the third floor.

Third floor: OK, I could work with this. It seemed quiet enough. I was seeking out real estate like SU looking for useless space downtown. I finally found a spot, but because I didn't get crucial positioning near the wall, I had no plug for my laptop. Before I knew it, 10 clones wearing Uggs, black North Faces and black tights descended and were discussing the merits of "The Hills." Forget it: I bailed out like Syracuse football fans and ascended higher.

Upon entering the fourth floor, I had a terrifying epiphany: There are way too many books in the library. Who reads these books? The bureaucrats in the law department have their own library and the folks in science-technology research have one, too.

So to whom do these books belong? The midterm villains! All the books could be replaced with desks, like those cool Inspector Gadget desks in the management building. Don't fear, all was not lost; I found a spot and began to study. All was well for the moment.

I was awakened from my trance by a siren and a voice telling me: "IT'S 11:45. THE LIBRARY IS CLOSING NOW!" OK, how was I supposed to kill those little green-skinned goobers when my own team was committing treason and kicking me out of the base? So I dropped faster than Britney Spears' career to the first floor. I was almost knocked off my feet by the noise.

Every little noise bounced off the glass and stone that makes up this fortress. What genius built a library that amplifies sound? This was no concert hall. It was official: I've been sold out by my own team. How can I succeed in regulating like Warren G and Nate Dogg when I don't have a place to study past midnight?

We need a new base: one with plenty of desks with plugs, one with fewer books that were best-sellers when my grandparents were young and one that stays open later for all the Syracuse students trying to succeed. We need one now, because those sneaky little exams will be arriving any minute.

Tim Goessling is a senior, television, radio and film major and would be in Gryffindor at Hogwarts.

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