Maybe it was listening to a girl from Jerusalem argue with a German girl over the aftermath of the Holocaust.
Wow. I'm still reeling from my New Year's Eve shenanigans. What was I thinking? I mean, I've gone through my entire life feeling like a lonely pea in a pod big enough for two.
After finishing their first semester at the University, African-American first years and transfer students celebrated their accomplishments in the annual Harambee II held yesterday afternoon.
I'd like to complain about the cold. It's really freakin' cold outside. My hands get cold. My face gets cold.
By mid-semester the stresses of unfilled schedules will have long since passed, ironically replaced by the anxieties of days that are too full.
As graduating fourth years finally log in to ISIS to complete final registration, they are forced to confront the reality of their final semester.
We won't lie to you. We miss Espresso Royale. It was so utterly Charlottesville, the way that the true intellectuals flocked there for a latte, a much different crowd than the gotta-go Starbucks.
As students begin preparing for their classes by purchasing books and making last minute adjustments to their schedules, professors are putting the finishing touches on weeks of preparation. Last minute trips to the bookstore and desperate attempts to log onto ISIS to change discussion sections hardly compare to the time and effort professors spend to provide their students with the best classes possible. Economics Prof.
Gregory Smith peers out from beneath a shell of straight, golden hair and answers interview questions with the assurance and poise of a well-practiced public figure.
I don't stretch before I run. It's one of those things I have always hated to do. I mean, really, if I get up enough energy to get off my butt and stop watching "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" in order to physically torture myself, I am not going to take the time to slow down and stretch.
She's had her life threatened by the Iranian government countless times. She's suffered the grotesque conditions of a prison run by Islamic extremists.
I hate New Year's.I know that's a bold statement, but I cannot help it. The holiday has never felt right to me, and up until last week, I could not figure out why.
It's January again -- time for a new year, a new semester, new classes and some shiny new books to match.
As the semester winds to a close, the hearts and minds of many students stray from papers and projects to restful memories of the holiday season.
Sweet Potato Casserole (Courtesy Penny Midboe) 2 large or 3 medium sweet potatoes 1 teaspoon salt 4 tablespoons butter 5 oz.
A Sweet Gift Giving Tradition When chilly weather rolls in, and light-up reindeer begin to graze on lawns throughout the neighborhood, second-year Nursing student Casey Freeman dons oven mitts and hits the kitchen to do some holiday baking.
Thoughts of cafeteria staff bring to mind memories of middle school, with so-called food put in front of you in scoops of who-knows-what; or the salad bar, where you find the three kids in front of you just coughed and sneezed all over the ranch dressing; and the lunch workers, who worked every day in the cafeteria having to deal with all the little pre-teen girls chattering about the boy who borrowed their pencils in class and the guys who, in this stage, were overwhelmingly awkward.
For the student, it is the equivalent of the classical descent into hell: Aanight of paper writing.
They just seem to be getting worse. Regardless of what airline you plan on flying, they are all terrible.
