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.
At some point during their four years at the University, almost every student on Grounds has some interaction with Peer Health Educators.
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.
Fourth-year College student Maggie Ambrose has taken her passion for working with the Charlottesville community to the next level through her internship at Charlottesville Tomorrow, a news platform covering local Charlottesville stories.
During the summer of 2001, Maria Diaz was a promising student getting ready to begin her second year at the University. But on August 24, a tragic accident caused her car to suddenly veer off the side of the road. She died instantly.
University officials announced plans for an extravagant 271st birthday celebration for U.Va. visionary and People Magazine’s 1776 “Sexiest Man Alive,” Thomas Jefferson.
The University’s chapter of the St. Baldrick’s Foundation successfully raised $48,025 for childhood cancer research at its annual head-shaving event at the Biltmore last Thursday.
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?
Months before she stepped on Grounds as a student for the first time, first-year College student Jennifer Baez had a plan. For her, having a job while at school was non-negotiable, and to give herself an advantage she applied to jobs before the school year started.
With paying for college recently proving equally as challenging as gaining acceptance, more and more students are vying for Reserve Officer Training Corps scholarships each year, hoping to alleviate financial burdens while focusing on academic goals and military training.
By offering scholarships to incoming University students, the Jefferson Scholars Foundation aims to attract students who have exhibited Thomas Jefferson’s ideals of leadership, citizenship and scholarship — oftentimes bringing students to Grounds who would not be here otherwise.
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.
