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(12/24/14 6:48pm)
In Stephen King’s memoir “On Writing,” King compares the process of crafting long works of fiction to “crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a bathtub.” Easy for him to say, considering his bathtub is equipped with a high-performance engine. To most people, however — myself included — even the thought of completing a single manuscript is a far-fetched dream. And that’s a far cry from 55 novels.
(11/25/14 6:49am)
On Thursday morning, I scalded my entire right hand in the middle of Clark Hall trying to pick up a Greenberry’s cup with a loose lid. Worse, the coffee splattered on top of the second-degree burn I had gotten the night before whilst cooking dinner — totaling two burns on the same hand in less than 24 hours.
(11/11/14 3:32am)
As a relatively young driver — and an avid street crosser — getting honked at is a common occurrence.
(10/28/14 4:01am)
I recently stumbled across an Opinion column in The Cavalier Daily's pages. It offered some fair criticism, and some not so fair, of Cavalier Daily Life columns. But rather than address the column specifically, I'd like to take the opportunity to reflect on why exactly I write this column.
(09/30/14 9:08pm)
There is nothing more satisfying than pouring my thoughts onto a page, my words giving people I've never met the means to shape a clearer view of themselves.
(09/16/14 3:09am)
I was having dinner with my friend the other night when she casually mentioned a childhood friend of hers had recently committed suicide. Knowing from experience that showering a traumatized friend with sympathy is not necessarily helpful, I asked her to tell me more about the situation.
(09/01/14 3:34pm)
After a long day of my summer internship at Georgetown University Hospital, my mind rubbed raw with stories of chemotherapy regimens and grave prognoses, I was in desperate need of a caffeine boost. I anxiously watched the Starbucks baristas scurry about, trying to fill the dozen cups lined up behind the counter, until I realized it had been a few hours since I’d looked at my phone.
(04/21/14 3:20pm)
As I drifted in and out of sleep one Sunday morning, I had a nightmare in which I accidentally slept through all my classes the day a term paper was due. Thought after panicked thought darted through my mind: the excuse I’d have to forge to my TA for turning in a late paper, the irrevocable penalty I’d receive for the anthropology quiz I missed, the French participation grade I forfeited and the number of weeks it would take me to get over just one day’s worth of irresponsibility-induced shame.
(04/07/14 3:45pm)
When asked to give directions to Lawn Garden VII in the Final Jeopardy round of our training game, I freeze. I start to sweat profusely — as if waking up from a nightmare — and my brain erupts into a whirlwind of blankness. The only salvageable thought within the reach of my abysmal mind is, “Wait…the Lawn has gardens?”
(03/24/14 6:42pm)
It’s impossible to tread the McCormick Bridge during peak class-crossing hours without catching a whiff of pungent athleticism running through the veins of our University. To many, the sea of sneakers and nylon shorts is just part of their lifestyle. But to others who are less physically inclined, it’s a constant reminder of our own ineptitude.
(03/03/14 8:51pm)
As a former Dillardian, catching the bus was more than just a means of transportation — it was a way of life. Since then, the bus has not only become deeply ingrained in my lifestyle, but also irrevocably intertwined with my personality.