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?
Manhattan — the city to end all cities. It’s relentlessly fast-paced, its size is almost overwhelming, and its buildings are under constant construction. New York isn’t a city for everybody, but it’s the city for me.
I did not join hundreds of my fellow students in the amphitheater Wednesday evening, but now I wish I had.
Alderman can be a dismal place — a result of poor lighting and the fact that the library is where you go in your darkest hours.
As we grow older, we learn that people lie. Compulsive lies, bold-faced lies, white lies — the spectrum is broad and used by many, even our parents.
Since first year, I’ve been at a disadvantage in small talk. I don’t love small talk to begin with, but, as one of the University’s many catch-all NoVa kids, I’m also ill-suited for the “hometown, major” discussion.
Unless I am walking to class with someone, you will always see me with headphones in.
The mind plays a cruel game of desire in which the more intensely we force ourselves to stay away from something, the more attention and brainpower we devote to it.
These episodes happen all too frequently, as daydreaming has become a cognitive waste of time and a hindrance to my productivity.
According to Women’s Health Magazine, 51 percent of people think couples should hold off on sex until marriage, and 47 percent of Millennials agree. If this is true, then why is waiting for marriage so uncommon within University culture?
Last weekend at the Florida State men’s basketball game, the halftime show featured two dogs running around, catching frisbees and doing the occasional back flip. It sounds simple, but it was the best half time show I have seen to date.
When people ask me what I do in my free time, I tell them I’m a radio jockey.
I know I’m not the only who has momentary breakdowns, and I know my problems aren’t as bad as it gets. Though college is often referred to as the best years of our lives, these years are also trying. Yesterday, I began to view my computer as a sentient being out to ruin my life.
THE ATHLETE: Clad in all Nike everything, this person woke up at 5 a.m. and has already completed a workout harder than anything you’ve done since high school preseason.
Winter must be one of two things — warm or apocalyptically snowy. This one has been neither.
Selling 100 million copies worldwide and bringing in more than 81 million dollars during its first weekend in theaters, “Fifty Shades of Grey” has certainly enraptured its audiences.
I skipped four classes last week. Sorry, Mom and Dad. Three of these were planned — I was going out of town for the weekend, and my trip was definitely worth it.
Without a doubt, the thing I miss the least about college is the horrible, gut-wrenching feeling afflicting me every finals season as I sat in Clemons circa three a.m.
My fourth-year apartment housed four girls. Two were Commerce students whose summer internships had landed them jobs for the upcoming year. The third, on the pre-med track, was studying for the MCAT while submitting applications to medical schools. Then there was me — no job secured, no grad school in sight.
