“Oh, you must be spoiled.” It’s a sentence I have heard frequently throughout my life. To most people, disclosing you are an only child is disclosing you are a brat.
120 polished and confident girls with shiny Pantene hair and clear smiles stare at me. I don’t recognize most of them, but they form a mass of perfection, of poise.
Walking to class the other day, I noticed a familiar looking man headed in my direction. Appearing to be in his 50s or so, he continued to approach me until he was close enough for me to confirm I did indeed recognize him.
As a child, dreams were like a game for me. I would wake up and immediately try to tell someone in the house what happened, only to find 30 seconds into my description that I was making up nonsense due to my lack of memory.
I find myself picking up on the atmosphere we create more and more these days as I struggle to pull myself out of a strange whirlpool of stress.
For those of you who are not aware, there was a Teeny Animal Farm in the amphitheater last week. No, that is not the name of the band you’ve never heard of but pretend you know to seem cool to your friends.
Thanks to BuzzFeed, I know more about myself than I ever thought I wanted to. I know which Olsen twin I would be, which character on Gilmore Girls I would date, even which 19th century writer most accurately matches my personality.
When asked to give directions to the Lawn’s Garden VII in the Final Jeopardy round of our training game, I freeze.
Due to my immense disdain for running and my lack of any semblance of hand-eye coordination, I was never an athlete in high school.
The 10 essential U.Va. Instagrams to prepare for now that spring has — finally — arrived.
I grew up in a house where Sunday was a sacred day reserved for church in the morning and inordinate amounts of food — and hopefully football — in the afternoon. Family dinner on Sunday was an indulgent affair.
“Good god! What a useless column,” I hear you exclaim as you read the subhead. “What bumbling idiot needs advice on refining his schedule? Ratemyprofessors.com is all anyone needs for success.”
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?
