More reckless is to try and bottle this up

What were you thinking? When has saying 'fuck off' to the intrusive unknown ever worked? And what if you stop time and then die? What then? Is the universe fucked just because you were too pussilanimous to even try to protect it from your own shite? Because it's too inconvenient for you? Because you might potentially humiliate yourself if you're a bit thick with your handling of things. Bollocks. This is an opportunity! A breakthrough! Imagine all the things you could do by stopping time...

...Like if someone asks you an awkward question that catches you off guard, especially if they do it on purpose, you can freeze everyone while you find a snarky comeback, and always have the last word in every argument...

...Or, um, if you're in an exam and the teacher is a complete bastard who put stuff in the exam that he never mentioned in class, you can cheat the evil prick by stopping everybody and just google the shit. Of course you'd have to do it in small increments, like you couldn't write anything while time was stopped 'cos that would look really weird if there's one of the faculty watching over your shoulder...

...

Or, yes, you could be an absolutely despicable monster and go do stuff to people. Like, prank them...? yes, pranking them sounds less awful. #Mr. McRapey McRape **** Lannister Smith, brought to you by Ozzymanreviews...

But then it hits you, you still don't actually know how to control this power (what a relief), and right now, time is stopped. You look toward the toff in the window opposite in Block A, and try to will him to move again. In fact, you formulate in your mind the intent for the universe to continue exactly where it left off. Then you scrunch up your face, cross your arms, roll into a ball and brace yourself for impact.

Nothing happens. You look up toward the window: SPLAT! A huge dollop of mud comes to a halt inches from your face, stopped dead by the glass of your window. For a moment you can't believe what happened. You're just dumbfounded. Can't move. Computer says no. System failure. But now you rise to your full height of exactly one forehead's worth shorter than you wish, open the window and slowly peer outside. Hordes of schoolboys are going by all the way down below, mostly primary school, but also junior high. Not a single adult in sight. You would be wondering what on earth they might be doing out at this hour, but you're fuming, and only care for ****. There's little doubt as to which one of the little shits could have done this. For one he's giggling to all his friends like the satisfied bully he is, giggling at your raging angry face, and secondly he's clearly the tallest and most fit of the pack. You know what you want to do. You stop time. You scoop all the mud from your window and compact it together, back into a ball, take aim, and half launch half drop the mud right back down. The little abominable demon is still grinning like an idiot when the stuff splatters onto his face; not much longer. Next you walk back inside, get a sponge and washing up liquid, proceed to clean your window of every little trace of dirt, before returning to your original position, head poking out of the window looking down at the horde of low-lives below. Your smirk forms fully just as you allow the narrative to resume. What a wonderful sight. Looks like their poor little central processors went boom.

...And now you know tow things: 1) that if you stay level headed, if you don't blow your top, you won't get a dirty great slap on the nut each time you reboot the universe, which means you are now in control, and 2) people are rubbish. Fuck people (maybe literally). There is no place for lofty morals here. Let's have fun at the expense of others for a change. No one will know.

You have a plan. The student residence is a perfect place to start. Exactly what to do once you start messing around you don't know. Something is bound to come up. First you need a means to your nebulous ends. The administrative offices downstairs. That is where to go. They surely have doubles of all the keys for each room and apartment. You leave your room, take the lift to ground level, and go to the reception area. The office is open. You stop time. You climb over the sort of half-table half-wall, from behind which the receptionist is currently dealing with the rent of a rather overly large specimen of male modern human. The type who could unintentionally kill you in a variety of ways. You open cupboards here, and cupboards there (sometimes forcefully), until you find one full of spare keys. Each has a little number plate underneath its hook.