If I ever become a serial killer (not terribly likely — all the good firms have hiring freezes), I think I’ll target construction workers. This was a decision arrived at after long and careful thought. Or, to put it another way, in the 12 seconds this morning after I was awoken by a buzzing power saw.

I got to bed around 4:30 a.m., after working half the night on the J-School yearbook (another story in itself; I wandered in around 9 p.m. to see if they needed help and stumbled out seven hours laters with the title of Production Editor). It seemed my head had scarcely hit the pillow when I was shocked into consciouness by the whirrling blades of a whining saw, sounding like they were about to enter my skull.

Falling from the bed, I dragged myself to the window, where I see a bearded, potbellied man humming to himself as he chopped up two-by-fours. The construction scaffolding has been around my building for months; the workers usually content themselves with pounding arhythmically on the walls. This time, though, they felt it necessary to chop away at their lumber supply at 7 a.m., jolting me from a sound sleep and coating my room with sawdust.

The saw guy was standing directly behind my bed, with only the cardboard-thin walls (and some bricks) saving me from sudden, gruesome death. It was only my grogginess that saved the construction worker from a similar fate.