I find myself somewhat rubbed the wrong way when people give too much weight to the undergraduate major someone else is pursuing.
With the exhausting supply of fantasy football statistics proving ineffective in fueling my procrastination, I decided to check if Lou had posted the spring semester’s List, and proceeded to browse the course options for the next hour.
Most students spend their weekdays sitting in a classroom, listening to lectures or discussing readings for several hours with scattered CIO activity in between.
Every morning, my mom swishes her slippers across the floor, wearing the flannel bathrobe that is half of a matching set, given to her and my father as a wedding gift.
Charlottesville has never been a stranger to the libation scene. Thomas Jefferson set the standard with his love for elaborate parties and wine, and not much has changed in the past 200 years in that regard.
Out of the long list of things I feel like you’re supposed to have learned how to do by the time you’re out of college — including organizing your bedroom, paying bills, managing time and balancing work wisely — I still have yet to learn how to cook.
Calculus lecture. Friday, 10 a.m. – I’m trying to pay attention, but I keep nodding off. I glance around at my fellow classmates also trapped in the basement (read: dungeon) of Olsson — which smells like mold and is always at least 20 degrees colder than outside — to see if they are faring any better.
I have to make a habit of carrying a spare sock with me everywhere. It’s not rooted in a desire to use them as mittens or to make cat toys out of — which, I have been informed, is actually a thing.
This column serves as your friendly reminder we have officially entered the two-week pre-Halloween period.
The University possesses a hookup culture, as any student will readily expound. I cannot count the number of times older friends have advised me to shake away the ridiculous notions of romance bouncing around my head.
At times, somewhere in the middle of a long block of back-to-back classes, I start to feel restless.
It wasn’t until I was standing knee deep in Bethesda Fountain, smiling manically at a submerged penny, that I realized I didn’t know what I was doing with my life.
On Tuesday, our apartment fish committed suicide. We assumed it was Tuesday, at least. It really could have been any time between Friday and that afternoon, when a collective void of productivity swept my roommates and me from Charlottesville towards a brief if joyous respite back home.
I wasn’t having an academical day. It was a 15-person Religious Studies seminar, and my readings were about as complete as I was focused.
“The interdisciplinary major is for people who don’t feel their academic needs are being fulfilled by a traditional major,” fourth-year College and IMP student Stephanie Lebolt said.
There is a reason they say New York City is the greatest place on Earth. Maybe it’s because “You’ve Got Mail” has always been one of my favorite movies, but I really can’t argue with this grand claim.
There is no comparison to the horror women face as they get lost in New Cabell looking for a female lavatory.
People are too nice, and I’m tired of hearing too much of the same thing. I’m tired of hearing my TA say, “Yeah, that’s a really good point!” when I didn’t even do the reading.
Before arriving at the University for the first time this fall, I was “lucky” enough to receive advice from every single person who had already experienced a freshman college year.
It’s 12:04 a.m., and I cling to life with “Breaking Bad.” Brains and blood and buckets of ketchup textured blood coat my screen and I feel more.
