My clock says 1:16. I've just returned from lunch and I'm staring at my math for the first time in about two weeks.

Because this particular class meets too early in the morning (2:30 p.m.) I don't show up for it very often. As a result, I'm not all that keen on the material being covered on tomorrow's test. No problem, I tell myself; I've got all afternoon to study, and I'm currently nestled in my dorm room, free from distractions. College dormitories being the placid academic havens they are, I should be able to get my studying done without interruption.

Let's see now: if a train leaves Chicago traveling 3x-2 miles per hour . . .

RRIIINNNGG! It's the phone. If I remember my Morse code right, this is an off-campus call. I pick up the receiver and mumble into it, absently wishing the caller to be a friend from home.

"May I please speak to Mr. David Hollingsworth?" So much for a close friend. I spend the next ten minutes listening mutely as a representative from the First Bank of Wyoming explains how owning a Visa card will make my life exciting and dynamic. I tell her that I already have a Visa card, and that I don't use it very often -- it just sits there, not doing much. (It's kind of like carrying Dan Quayle in my wallet.) She makes a wounded noise and hangs up.

OK, back to my math: If a train leaves Chicago at 3x-2 miles per hour, and a passenger is carrying a time bomb set for . . .

"I wanna SEX YOU UP!" Ah, that would be my friend down the hall who always plays dance music KINDA LOUD. In truth, my ears are almost used to the noise by now, but I worry that someday he'll play his stereo with enough volume to shatter my eyeglasses, causing serious injury. As much as I like him, I could cheerfully tear my friend's pancreas out when he lets the music take control and lets the rhythm move him -- and make everyone else's ears bleed. I'll go yell at him to turn it down; it'll only take a minute.

Returning down the hall, I run into another friend, who is wearing a Philadelphia Sixers shirt. We embark on a discussion about possibly wiring Charles Barkley's mouth shut. (Pro: He would stop spitting on fans and bad-mouthing everybody in sight. Con: He would have to eat through his nose.) Our enlightening discourse is cut short when I hear my phone again. The call shouldn't take long.

"Hello, may I speak to Mr. David Hollingsworth?" Oh, no.

I am told that I am eligible for an exclusive promotional package deal of magazine subscriptions. A representative from Thyroid Inc. subscription service spends the next 20 minutes describing (in great detail) roughly 70 different subscription plans, all of which involve my getting Motor Trend and People and Nudist Gardener Weekly and other waiting-room type magazines for the next five years or so.

I explain that I already get a comprehensive news periodical (Guitar World), and that I lack the money necessary to subscribe to other magazines. The representative begins to point out that I can actually afford this special promotional package very easily, especially if I obtain a First Bank of Wyoming Visa card. I hang up.

Now, for my math: A train is leaving Chicago going 3x-2 . . .

My stomach growls. A thorough search of the room yields about half a bowl's worth each of Kix and Apple Jacks. I grab my coat and leave for McLanahan's to buy milk for the cereal; it should only take a minute.

A half-hour later I return, a dollar poorer for the milk and about three bucks lighter from a detour through Playland. I'd better get to my math now. Let's see: A train, westbound out of Chicago at 3x-2, with a passenger carrying a time bomb . . .

Suddenly, the hall erupts with whoops of excitement. "Dude! Julian got 2,000 lines on Tetris. You gotta see this!" I rush from my room, wondering if Julian's game is still in progress. My interest in this is high, as watching other people play computer games is the closest thing I have to an actual hobby. This shouldn't take very long.

I re-enter my room 40 minutes later, my nose buried in a friend's copy of Newsweek. Hmm, who's this Clinton guy on the cover? I get most of the way through the political cartoons before my roommate enters the room, joyously clutching an old David Bowie album he found on CD. He plugs it into the stereo and asks me if I've read today's cartoon from his Far Side desk calendar. (I haven't yet.)

Glancing at it, I realize that I've been forgetting to read the comics in the Collegian lately. I head out to root through the recycling bin for recent copies of the paper. I should be back soon, and then I'll start my math.

My roommate intercepts me on my way back and throws my coat to me, announcing that the gang is headed to dinner. Dinner?! I check my clock, which now says 5:37. Gee, I haven't studied very much for my math test. That's okay, though; I've got a lot of time after dinner to work, and I'll be safely nestled in my dorm room, free from distractions.

RRRIIINNNGG!, screams the phone. I throw my math book at it, grab my ID card, and head for dinner.

It shouldn't take too long.