I’ve just crossed the border into an unfamiliar territory — being single on Valentine’s Day. Should I start planning for the apocalypse now or when I’m drinking my sorrows away on Saturday? If you cannot tell, the break up happened recently.
Call me my father’s daughter, but I’ll be damned if I don’t love nachos. Yet never had I thought my love of chips and cheese would be correlated with the success of my, erm, love life.
It’s been indescribably painful to be without you for this long. Since you’ve been gone, I‘ve had to follow random Instagram accounts in order to make up for my incredibly dull feed.
Recently, there was an article in The Cavalier Daily describing how fellow student Attiya Latif brought World Hijab Day to Grounds. While it was a well-written article, something about it bothered me — the hurtful comments.
While several people are panicking over the unforgivable sacrilege of being single on Valentine’s Day, I am panicking over turning 21 shortly thereafter.
Valentine’s Day in elementary school is blissfully simple. You spend one afternoon covering a shoebox you brought from home with lopsided red and pink construction paper hearts, then circle around the classroom stuffing one Peanut’s themed slip of paper — with a Hershey’s Kiss taped to the bottom if your mom was feeling really generous — into each classmate’s box, no questions asked.
Nothing reminds me there’s still evil in the world quite like the Duke game. This year’s lineup, in particular, embodied everything despicable about Duke.
Last week I embarked on a grand adventure to the land where dreams become reality — no, not the Corner following midterms — Walt Disney World.
Last Thursday night, 150 Charlottesville community members and I attended a panel on race relations and community development, held in reaction to the events in Ferguson, Missouri.
To this day, “Drops of Jupiter” remains the most meaningful song in my life. It’s the first song I play when I come home from college to a dusty piano.
It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when I began to singlehandedly dismantle my own self-confidence. Beginning somewhere near the beginning of fall semester, I fell into a debilitating routine of insecurity and systematic self-doubt—triggered by no one specific event, I somehow convinced myself I was failing as a student, as a friend, as a writer and person. It’s strange how no one really talks how transitioning into your second year at the University can be hard.
As an English and Religious Studies double major, I frequently enjoy the privilege of navigating the “what on earth are you going to do with that degree?” question.
One evening at the end of summer, my three best friends and I were parked in our usual spot outside the ice cream parlor, listening to the final notes of “Build Me Up Buttercup” fade into an uncomfortable silence.
How do you tell someone you have three cats without sounding like a lonely spinster? Not possible. These days, being a cat person is not trendy.
Because it’s over, I think I’m permitted to confess to the world how at the start of the experience, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing when it came to sorority rush.
In 2012, one Clemson student became quite the innovator when he created the National Tigers for Tigers Coalition.
Yesterday, my suitemate walked into my room inquiring about unofficial transcripts. When I asked why she needed to know, she replied, “I’m applying for a couple of government internships and a transcript is required.” Shocked by her tone of indifference, my reply went something like, “So, you’re applying for a government internship...that would put you in the government...like the U.S.
I don’t read for pleasure nearly as much as I should. Last semester, most of my time was spent leafing through textbooks, course packs or required classics, so I could argue that I simply didn’t have the time.
For a long time, I felt area requirements were a punishment for my incompetence—a painful reminder of my place at the bottom of the University’s food chain of intelligence—and deserved to suffer. During my first year, I spent a countless number of hours redrafting my schedule for the next seven semesters – trying desperately to find ways in which I could squeeze in all of the requirements without sacrificing the more “important” classes.
While college is full of ups and downs, our community has experienced the worst down — eternal goodbye — far too often this past year.
