I often ponder the big questions of life—things like whether the universe is infinite, if time travel is possible and why dentists and hair stylists feel the need to talk to you during every second of your appointment.
I recently witnessed a social networking blunder of the most mortifying caliber: the cringe-worthy accidental Facebook poke.
“Hey, bitch, give me your number,” one yelled. “I lost my number. I think I need yours,” another called. I wanted to turn around and give them all the middle finger, to tell them why their actions were wrong, why their words hurt not just me, but themselves too.
To return to Grounds after a month-long recess is to return to the town of Charlottesville, classes and most importantly, your friends at U.Va.
It’s that time of the year. Well, it just was. I, along with 1,000 of my compatriots, sacrificed three days of shower pressure and milk that does not come out of bags to move back in early and participate in what is certainly one of the weirdest experiences of my life.
I am not traditionally one to call myself superstitious, but my reflections have been making me suspicious as I consider that 2013 was perhaps the crappiest — for lack of a more appropriate term — year of my life to date.
To borrow a phrase from my second favorite critically-acclaimed musical talent, A-Teens, my life is currently “upside down, bouncing off the ceilings.” If you are cut from a more high-modernist cloth, the words of T.S. Eliot surmise my sentiments quite nicely: “things fall apart.”
It’s always funny how the smallest things can make lasting lifelong impressions on you — a certain song, a commercial on TV, or just a phrase from a book.
In many ways I am a typical University student. I have always overscheduled myself, and just when I think I am at my limit, I add something else to my plate and manage to make it work. Last semester, though, I believe I finally hit the ceiling for the amount of things I was able to do.
Under my bed in Balz-Dobie is a small shoebox filled to capacity with notes, photographs and nostalgia.
As the impending semester loomed over my last few days of winter break, I found myself in a most uncommon predicament: evading the romantic proposition of a man at 10 p.m.
A beacon of renewal and rededication for many, New Years will always hold a special place in my heart as my least favorite pseudo-holiday.
Rest in peace, small forest. If only I could reverse the papermaking process. I could probably restore anywhere from 30 to 75 trees from the printed mementos in my childhood room alone.
A holiday letter to my future friends and frenemies.
Well folks, it’s that time of year again: “Juan-uary” is upon us. Yes, ABC’s “The Bachelor” is back, and this season promises drama, heartbreak and many more entertaining, excessive dates.
When it came to preparing for my semester abroad which will be occurring this spring, there seemed to be 300 steps before any of it began to make sense or seem real.
The entire concept of being a “slut” is trivial and outdated. Dating back to roughly 15th century English, the grotesque term has made its way from ink on a scroll of parchment to the 140 characters Twitter permits us to use as we seek to dazzle our friends and family with our insight and wit. And, unfortunately, the whole “slut” thing is still plaguing society in the very same ways it always has.
Sure, there’s something to be said about a mother’s home cooking and some alone time with your dog. But, between having to tell every single person I speak to that I’m not a sophomore (I’m a second-year!) and that a well-timed cheeseburger with a fried egg on top can in fact change your life, it’s hard not to miss the people who embrace these things with pride.
I am the type of person that picks up her phone to call someone the moment I am left alone on my way to class or in my car.
It’s the Sunday after fall break, and I’m exhausted, hungry, and have a ton of work left that I procrastinated doing over the weekend.
