I checked my email to find my multitude of attendance points had paid off in the form of a ticket. I then won another lottery — I’m an exceptional gambler — for a coveted spot on the Hoo Crew’s free round-trip bus ride and found myself heading to New York City.
Last Friday, my street corner went up in flames and down in infamy. Wallowing in basketball-induced despair, I was none too pleased when my roommate came bustling in and yanked open our blinds.
As I sat in Alderman this morning — scrolling through BuzzFeed and procrastinating (is that redundant?) — I came across an unpleasant surprise: a quiz titled, “Which Food Network Chef is Your Spirit Animal?”
During the brief spell of warm, sunny days in mid-March, droves of students flocked to the Lawn and amphitheater for sunbathing and outdoor merriment.
Saturday was my friend’s birthday. Being the overwhelmingly srat-tastic and fun-loving individuals we are, we naturally had no choice but to make a production out of the ordeal, discussing only the most pressing matters: who will be the lucky guy upon whom I will bestow an invitation to my parents’ formal? Or rather, who will pretend to be unfazed when I “forget” to mention he has to rent a tux and converse with my endearingly Hispanic parents — surprise! — over fruity drinks at a Mexican restaurant?
I am considered to be a pretty funny person. I frequently cause entire rooms to burst out into uncontrollable laughter, followed by my fans asking me to repeat myself and recreate their feeling of giddiness.
My inbox is filled with messages from my new major head and subject lines saying “Sign-Up for Honor Week” or “Attend a Philanthropy!” Another emails read: “Can we reschedule the meeting from 2:30 to 3?
After a while in the search for perfection, the inevitable question arises: what happens when you achieve such perfection?
It’s hard to imagine what life would be like without an iPhone. I picture my friends wearing bonnets, churning butter and playing with dolls at a creepily old age.
Every Saturday morning for all of autumn of 1999, with peepers in my eyes and a white cotton turtleneck under my jersey, I arrived at the elementary school gymnasium to run the wrong way down the carpeted court and touch the kiddie-sized basketball once all season. With a gusto that could be called respectable but not impressive, I supported my team with my shiny white Keds and my impeccable, parentally-enforced attendance record.
During Spring Break, some students headed south, some east and some west. I went back home to New York. Once there, I traveled south. Then I continued to travel south, as I sunk deeper and deeper into my couch.
I went down to New Orleans this past week to embark on a right of passage every college student must eventually face: job interviews.
It’s impossible to tread the bridge on McCormick during peak class-crossing hour without catching a whiff of the pungent athleticism running through the veins of the University.
In the past two weeks, I spent more than 20 hours in the confines of a car. This was especially unpleasant considering I am one of the people physically incapable of sleeping in moving vehicles. It’s probably because the stagnancy causes all of my already excessive energy to gradually collect in my body, so I’m left to experience every moment of the trip in a state of amplified consciousness.
1. The know-it-all Did you know 34.5 percent of 14 seeded teams which score more than 4 points in the first 2 minutes and 46 seconds of the second half win 54 percent of their games if they’re wearing the color orange and the third quarter starts no later than 5:12 pm?
I found out Santa did not exist the first Christmas I can remember; the Easter bunny always freaked me out; I was pissed when I turned 11 and no letter arrived from Hogwarts; and finally, when my first baby molar came out, I didn’t tell my parents — I waited skeptically to see what the cold side of my pillow would surprise me with in the morning.
Any student who attends class knows the corner between the Amphitheater and the Lawn is a favorite spot for students aggressively promoting various clubs and events to camp.
I love you, Wahoos — and every single falsity below makes me love you all the more.
Sitting by a table at an indoor courtyard in New Orleans, an older woman with wispy gray hair and a slight hunch approached me. “There’s a dead body under that tree, you know,” she said, gesturing to the pot next to me. I did not know.
Sometimes we say meaningless things. Take, for example, the “sorry circle.” Someone accidentally gets in your way and says, “Sorry!” to make up for it — but it really wasn’t a big deal to begin with.
