Hey, smelly hipster guy walking through the GAB snapping your fingers to the obnoxiously loud music coming out of your obnoxiously large headphones (Are you mixing a freaking album? No? Then get over yourself.) — the last thing people need on the Friday of finals week is a stinky goddamn metronome wondering the halls, reminding them of the precious few seconds they have left to study for their next agonizing torture test of “Can I remember five months worth of useless crap for the next two hours without succumbing to alcoholism or a cutting problem?” Go home and rhythmically apply some damn deodorant. Everyone hates you.