In my last six years as a Facebook user — yes, that is my subtle way of saying: “I had this in 2006 when I was a freshman in high school.
Grace Brown is a self-professed introvert. Calm and contemplative, she prefers to keep her thoughts to herself and to digest the world from behind her camera’s thick lens.
Three weeks ago I turned 22, and in the three weeks before and after my birthday I saw my high school friends more than in the past three years combined.
Before I came to Europe for the semester, I used to think it was silly when people said they couldn’t study abroad because it was too expensive.
On Halloween, one of my best friends was drugged at a party at a fraternity’s satellite house. She told me about it the next day after a morning visit to Student Health, feeling scared, confused and alone.
Dear Eddie, I’ve been invited to two tacky Christmas sweater parties already. What is that all about?
1) Beard burn: What could be worse than going in for a kiss and getting a faceful of beard? Sure, your lips are safe, but what about the cheeks and chin you spent so long making flawless to impress the boy you’re kissing?
“Your arm looks gross,” my sister said, acknowledging the hot oil burns on my left forearm. “You could write about cooking in your column.
We’ve all done a lot of thinking and talking about what we’re grateful for in the past week, maybe even to the point where it seems trite.
Every couple of months, U.Va. allows us to leave our monotonous lives as college students and go back home to the luxuries of our own rooms, the holiday cups at Starbucks, our moms’ — dad’s in my case — home cooking, and our high school friends without whom we thought we could never live.
Two cities; two chapters of Phi Gamma Delta; one rival football game; one long relay run. One cause.
The student models of Fashion for a Cause hit the catwalk last weekend at Main Street Arena to present their annual fall charity fashion show — this year dubbed “Cirque du Soleil: Le Grand Tour.”
Here we are again. Despite the countless promises I made to myself before Thanksgiving, I opted for blissful ignorance above proactive preparedness this break.
If there is one thing the holidays have taught me, it is that commercial travel is perhaps one of the most unifying and simultaneously divisive forces of our era, especially during the holiday season.
The holidays are here. In another universe, we may be able to ignore this fact, since it’s not even December.
We all know college students love to eat — they don’t call it the Freshman 15 for nothing. So it isn’t surprising that in a span of just a year University students have created two digital platforms that help students find food on Grounds — Foodio and hoos-eat-free.
Looking for a way to satisfy your carb cravings and help a worthy cause at the same time? Challah for Hunger has a table on the Lawn you may actually want to visit. The University’s Challah for Hunger branch is part of an international nonprofit organization that raises money for charity by baking traditional Jewish bread from scratch using ingredients donated from Albemarle Baking Company.
I’ve resisted the nagging urge to write a column about this particular topic because of a previously perceived lack of substance, but sometimes my internal filter through which I pass all ideas gets polluted by particular aggravating experiences. We all know about famous French cuisine, and believe me when I say it meets expectations.
We are at that point in our young adult lives where self-expression begins to matter. The research papers we write, the special items of clothing that comprise our signature outfits, the concert tickets on which we splurge and the stubs we tuck away for safe memory-keeping.
Now that Starbucks is using its holiday cups, Barracks Road Shopping Center has hung its wreaths, and the back of Target looks like a Christmas tree forest, I think it is appropriate for me to write a column about why the holidays rock when you’re in college — a whole 35 days before Christmas. Around the holidays, it is hard to not be a little sad.
