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(11/29/11 5:50am)
I walked into my sister's bedroom the other day and found her laying down, arms wrapped around her upper body, hands tapping against her shoulders. Back and forth, left then right, they tapped out a quiet rhythm. I interrupted what could only have been a meditative state with "What the hell are you doing?" She sat up and flipped her hair back, looking at me as if I'd asked an obvious question. "Connecting my emotional and rational brain," she answered. I nodded, because I understood. I immediately sensed that hugging yourself and giving your moments of panic and fear a back and forth, left and right direction could calm you down. And if sissy said her tapping hands connected parts of her brain, then I wasn't going to argue with her. I sat down on the bed and tapped my fingers against opposite sides of my head, seeking the solace my sister convinced me existed.
(11/08/11 7:27am)
I am fairly certain that November is the season of love. It cannot be autumn or winter for the former is the season of lust and the latter of resigned contentment. And if you must know, spring is the season of flirtation and summer the season of something like love but without all the complications - call it "like." November is the month we could all afford to skip. Unless you were born in November - my roommate would kill me for doing away with her birthday month - or you consider Thanksgiving to be the kind of Christmas where food is the gift, you really don't care about November. It's cold, you have no way of pulling up your suffering grades, and everyone seems to be paired off in kind-of-romances they began in September.
(10/25/11 4:00am)
The nature of a column is inherently self-centered. A columnist writes about herself because that's what she knows best. A columnist writes in first person because she is always talking about herself, even when she's talking about everyone else.
(10/05/11 4:00am)
Do doctors scare you? Does the thought of visiting Student Health and coming away with a tragic diagnosis haunt you? There's a better solution than your unhealthy habit of simply avoiding the doctor. Peer Health Educators are here to help.
(10/04/11 4:00am)
I cringe when I think about what most people do with their life experiences. "Most people" may not be a fair assessment, but to emphasize my self-importance I'll pretend that it is. "Life experiences" is the euphemistic way of saying "stuff that happens to you." I don't really care what your life experiences are, I simply want you to treat them the right way. So many times I see people experience moments, days or even events which they reason away so that they fit nicely into a box of "things that can be explained and also have a purpose." Life experiences are not meant to fit nicely into a category which can be filed away. And sometimes, there's no reason for their existence.
(09/28/11 4:27am)
Residents of Charlottesville's Sunrise Trailer Court have begun calling their home "Sunrise Park." Thanks to Habitat for Humanity of Greater Charlottesville's group and University volunteers, what could have been a tragic scenario became a heart-warming story of lending a helping hand.
(09/20/11 5:26am)
I have a brother. He is everything I am not: tall, underage, brave, athletically gifted and good at driving. He is everything I am: sensitive, self-conscious, brunette, named after family members. Charles Caswell Hardaway - Charlie - is 16 and he is "the twins' brother."
(09/16/11 2:30pm)
This is not a story about the University. This is not even a story about a student from the University. This is a story about fourth-year Education student Ramzi Shaykh's best friend. This is a story about fourth-year College student Philip Robbins's girlfriend. This is a story about Amy Cowie's twin sister. Ashley Cowie was a sophomore at Florida State University when she passed away in an accidental shooting Jan. 9.
(09/15/11 8:18pm)
I am not a competitor. I have never found joy in any sort of contest, be it physical or intellectual. If a teacher hosted a spelling bee I would rather share the spoils of victory with my classmates than have them view me as the "winner." And God forbid I'd lose and sulk in the shadows of another's glory. I do not compete for I cannot stand the isolation of winning nor the tragedy of losing.
(09/09/11 6:32am)
When taking a bath, I draw stick figures in the scum lining the rim of my tub. I can barely read what I'm typing because my computer screen is spotted with remnants of eaten-over-my-keyboard snacks. I have no clean underwear so I simply wear one layer of clothing below the waist. There are five quarter-filled cups of water sitting on the chair I've pulled up to my bed to act as a night-stand. Several times a day I fling myself onto the piles of clothes on my bed and floor and moan, "My life is in shambles!" Then I take a nap.
(09/01/11 5:15am)
I always have dreams. Some people retort: "But of course! Humans dream every night." Yeah, well, I dream more. My subconscious talks more to me at night than I talk to others during the day. My dreams are vivid and they vary from frighteningly realistic to absurdly implausible. No matter the subject, no matter the context, my dreams never cease to scare me.
(08/25/11 5:07am)
I am a waitress. The politically correct term for this is "server" but I prefer the former; it makes me think of high-waisted skirts, long white socks, and on occasion, roller blades. Unlike the 1950s version, the 21st-century waitress wears a tight T-shirt with her restaurant's name on it, almost too short shorts and ankle boots. My outfit is different but my purpose is the same: I'm here to make money.
(04/28/11 5:28am)
I was sitting on the steps of the Rotunda the other night. I was not naked, running up the steps like my first-year self. I was not garbed in a gown, descending the steps like my fourth-year self will. I was just sitting, actively talking and passively hanging in the balance between my college beginning and ending. My friend asked me: "What would you tell yourself then about what you know now?"\nI think "then" referred to my first day at college. I made up some answers to placate the questioner. In reality I needed a lot more time to ponder what I would write in a letter to myself. "Then," I realized, went back as far as my memory reached. This is what I would tell her:
(04/21/11 6:12am)
I do not like to talk about my romantic life because I am neither a love columnist nor a romantic. Sure, I'll allude to it so that I appear both attractive to the opposite sex and "more than just a writer chick." But writing an entire column about it? My sister would kill me with words that all rhyme with lame. My romantic interest - alas, I have whittled the many suitors down to just one - would blush and probably mumble something. My friends would ask for their very own column if I deigned to waste my time on a "boy I'm getting with." And I, knowing my track record with dudes in college, would regret the whole thing a week later.
(04/14/11 5:27am)
I've been crying a lot lately. The worst part about this crying, though, is that the tears are not my own. On the periphery of my stable and happy life I see tragedies. I walk by a bridge every day, that is painted with the name of a boy I never met, but who I feel like I could have liked. I hear about a boy I met a few times, who I envied for his ability to annihilate me in a high-school debate tournament, who never will debate again. I see one of my friends lose her own close friend and I begin to wonder if only the good die young.
(04/07/11 5:27am)
I am pretty sure that money cannot buy happiness. I am fairly certain that the happiest moments of my life were products not of money spent but of time wasted. I am almost positive that money is a material good that may get me some cute shoes but never will supply me with deep-bellied laughs.
(03/31/11 5:36am)
I do not think life is supposed to be simple. I think it has been and always will be a big tangled blob of things no one knows for sure. I also think that humans are far too capable of complicating things. It is in our nature to shy away from what is simple. We cannot take something good and make it great if we have the option of taking something good and tearing it to pieces. Nothing can just be. We must wonder how and why it got there.
(03/24/11 6:02am)
Lately I've found myself doing things that are too easy. By "too easy" I mean that I've been letting myself get away with a lot of stuff. By "stuff" I mean: a dirty apartment, mediocre grades and undefined relationships. I've even set this column up so that it has a three-point thesis. Too easy.
(03/17/11 6:14am)
I like to run. Ever since my friend and I set the record for the fastest mile at our middle school, I've liked running. The mile time was laughably slow, but seeing my name on a plaque in the gym felt so good that I convinced myself that a seven-minute mile was impressive. I convinced myself that I liked to run.
(03/03/11 6:22am)
Six days out of seven, I am a therapist. On the seventh day, I am sleeping, for if I were awake, I would be a therapist.