Before leaving school for summer, a friend of mine was on a new kick: giving cheese-tastic motivational speeches to her roommates to start off the morning.
I was merely unable to think of a weird quirk which would elicit equally entertaining reactions from my fellow breakers-of-the-ice. That is, until now.
Charlottesville is fun. The restaurants are amazing, the people all seem to click and, most importantly, the entire town doesn’t lock up and go to sleep at 8 p.m. The same can’t be said for the suburban town I have been exiled to. As soon as it gets dark, it becomes a ghost town — cue tumbleweed.
You, beloved readers, have worked hard this year. Treat yo’self, and give the ‘burbs some credit for helping you do just that.
Dear recent graduate, Until we streak again.
Last week, “Justified” came to a glorious conclusion — a fact I was sadly reminded of when my 9:57 p.m.
One of the many perks of being an in-state student is living close enough to home to steal my dog away for a few days.
I didn’t always dread flying, but I do now.
Third year, at least for those not born over the summer, revolves around the number 21. Before the nostalgic bucket-list marathon of fourth year, third year brings 21st birthday season in all its glory.
I can’t be alone in thinking the University’s current roommate survey just doesn’t cut it. I, like many others, resorted to Facebook to meet my future roommate.
Sometimes I feel like I’m leading separate lives, like there are multiples sides to me that come out on different occasions.
This weekend marks a milestone for me — I’m finally turning 21, and I’ve tried to hold off on drinking until my 21st birthday.
When I think of words to live by, I think of quotes printed under senior pictures in high school yearbooks — proverbs, inspirational song lyrics and cliché expressions alike.
I’ve always considered myself adventurous, but there have been times I was faced with a risky option and made the safe choice.
Sitting on the Lawn today, I joined legions of slackliners, girls in sundresses and boys reminiscent of Easter eggs.
Last week, after a long and exhausting day, my roommate and I settled down on the couch for a relaxing evening of TV.
I think it’s pretty clear, at least to Virginia fans, that March is the cruelest month. College basketball — college being the operative word here — is my favorite team sport, and March brings an overwhelming amount of meaningful games in rapid succession.
Re-adjusting the collar of her quarter-zip and taming the flyaways of second-day hair, my friend stared at her reflection with a look of mild disgust. “Ugh, I look so homeless,” she lamented.
When I visited home this past weekend, I spent time examining the trophies lining my bedroom shelves from various sports and hobbies of my past — dusty, neglected and forgotten.
If we separate, we ultimately perpetuate the very tension we hate. Of course we have the right to be upset, but what if we channeled our resentment into growth?
