1. Refer to every grassy area as Grounds: I think I’m allergic to the word “campus.” I’m not one of those people who will overtly correct you if you happen to utter it, but know that I’m scowling on the inside and any chance at marriage with me you thought you had will forever be just a dream.
My friend sat down across from me in a corner of Newcomb, hair unbrushed, belt forgotten. It was late March and tendrils of spring had began to sneak into our routine walks from Watson-Webb to the Chem building.
Recently, University students received the opportunity to vote on their choice of three proposals offered for the 2015 – and potentially 2016 – graduation ceremonies.
I’ve taken on this insane habit lately of waking up at 7:30 in the mornings. This is nothing of my own accord, at least not entirely.
As an English major, I invariably deal with a lot of words. Poems, essays, short stories—whatever form they’re in, I’ve experienced them.
Living exclusively among young adults, our perspective within the microcosm that is the University can at times be myopic.
As I drifted in and out of sleep one Sunday morning, I had a nightmare in which I accidentally slept through all my classes the day a term paper was due.
1. Lily Pulitzer Try to resist it, but you can’t. No, it is not your Aristocrat-influenced eyes that are playing tricks on you- there really are six girls within ten-foot radius that are wearing the same dress.
Last week, my excessively blunt friend commented on one of my recent Facebook posts saying, “You have a talent for making life look perfect.” The post she was referring to as “perfect” was a video I made of my recent spring break trip – created with professional software and set to overly sentimental music.
As my second year concludes, I find myself entering the final half of college and coming closer to the looming “real world.” Some find the leap from high school to college and the newfound freedom to be particularly jarring.
I am going into battle against my own university. Reason: two 10-minute presentations, three eight-page-plus papers and two upcoming final exams.
If I’ve learned anything from the two short decades I’ve spent on this planet, it’s not to trust nice people.
You know that nice, triangular grassy patch where everyone picnics across the street from Bodo’s? Where Brooks Hall is?* It needs a name. The fact that I just had to use so many words to describe a place we go all the time is, if you ask any writer, English major or literary inclined person, an utter linguistic travesty.
I’m standing at the bus stop, scrolling through Instagram for the 10,000th time, waiting for the Inner Loop very impatiently.
To put it simply, talking about Greek life has already gotten painfully old. I’m someone who has always had qualms with the Greek system.
“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.
