Nothing reminds me there’s still evil in the world quite like the Duke game. This year’s lineup, in particular, embodied everything despicable about Duke.
Last week I embarked on a grand adventure to the land where dreams become reality — no, not the Corner following midterms — Walt Disney World.
Last Thursday night, 150 Charlottesville community members and I attended a panel on race relations and community development, held in reaction to the events in Ferguson, Missouri.
To this day, “Drops of Jupiter” remains the most meaningful song in my life. It’s the first song I play when I come home from college to a dusty piano.
It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when I began to singlehandedly dismantle my own self-confidence. Beginning somewhere near the beginning of fall semester, I fell into a debilitating routine of insecurity and systematic self-doubt—triggered by no one specific event, I somehow convinced myself I was failing as a student, as a friend, as a writer and person. It’s strange how no one really talks how transitioning into your second year at the University can be hard.
As an English and Religious Studies double major, I frequently enjoy the privilege of navigating the “what on earth are you going to do with that degree?” question.
One evening at the end of summer, my three best friends and I were parked in our usual spot outside the ice cream parlor, listening to the final notes of “Build Me Up Buttercup” fade into an uncomfortable silence.
How do you tell someone you have three cats without sounding like a lonely spinster? Not possible. These days, being a cat person is not trendy.
Because it’s over, I think I’m permitted to confess to the world how at the start of the experience, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing when it came to sorority rush.
In 2012, one Clemson student became quite the innovator when he created the National Tigers for Tigers Coalition.
Yesterday, my suitemate walked into my room inquiring about unofficial transcripts. When I asked why she needed to know, she replied, “I’m applying for a couple of government internships and a transcript is required.” Shocked by her tone of indifference, my reply went something like, “So, you’re applying for a government internship...that would put you in the government...like the U.S.
I don’t read for pleasure nearly as much as I should. Last semester, most of my time was spent leafing through textbooks, course packs or required classics, so I could argue that I simply didn’t have the time.
For a long time, I felt area requirements were a punishment for my incompetence—a painful reminder of my place at the bottom of the University’s food chain of intelligence—and deserved to suffer. During my first year, I spent a countless number of hours redrafting my schedule for the next seven semesters – trying desperately to find ways in which I could squeeze in all of the requirements without sacrificing the more “important” classes.
While college is full of ups and downs, our community has experienced the worst down — eternal goodbye — far too often this past year.
When I first arrived at the University, I was immediately struck by the hyper-involvement of my peers.
I am thankful the lights are incredibly dim in Boylan; the darkness hides my crimson-flushed face after I was royally called out for being a know-it-all. I was catching up with friends on my first night back at the University, when the conversation turned to the Barnes Art Collection in Philadelphia and a class my friend took on Dutch Masters.
This past week was tough for old and new sorority members alike. Whether you were one of the 1,000 girls going through recruitment or one of the 2,000 on the other side, you are undoubtedly exhausted and emotionally drained.
For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a Hollywood film director. My adventures in show business began at age nine, when my sister and I used a handheld camera to recreate the greatest movie we had ever seen.
Many people oversleep, but few pursue it with any real thought. I’ve decided that oversleeping is like war; the sleeping self must conquer the alarm clock.
Rush is weird. Having gone through recruitment four times now—once as a “rushee” and three times as a sorority woman—I can knowingly say it does not get much better. Each year, I approached the process differently.
