Last week, feeling it was one of our last chances of the semester to be social, my friends and I decided to go out for one final hurrah. After performing the hour’s worth of rituals associated with getting ready to go out, we left our hall.
Almost as soon as I woke up Sunday morning to catch my flight back to Charlottesville, I felt the waves of a homework-induced headache descend over me.
Last Friday, my friend Sarah and I briefly retired from the traditional first-year nightlife routine of frequenting frat parties.
I have a strange love for road trips and plane rides. I hope anyone going home for the holidays will ultimately be able to understand this sentiment — though I know it may take some explanation first. You see, while there are certainly downsides to traveling — having to wait in massive security lines, having your flight cancelled or, in the case of a road trip, being stuck in terrible traffic —overall, I tend to see the experience as an enjoyable one. First, there is the people-watching.
1. When asked about your love life If you don’t have one, make one up. There’s no avoiding the 12 million questions which, coming from any and all parties, concerning your romantic interests — a topic apparently of utmost relevance to anyone who shares even a drop of your bloodline.
First semester of fourth year is coming to a close, but my conversations are beginning to resemble those of a high school senior.
At the University, music is omnipresent. Walking through dorms, you can hear an eclectic mix of songs permeating through the walls.
Finding God An agnostic’s church experiences by: Grace Muth The congregation had come before the altar, before the pulpit and stage, and we crept through the back entrance, hands lifted in song lyrics projected onto the white walls.
To quote our nation’s most revered nightrider (pun intended): “The turkeys are coming!” Well, no, those may not have been Paul’s words verbatim.
I have never been more excited or ready for Thanksgiving break than I am this year. I can say this with full certainty as I sit on the fourth floor of Alderman, my eyes feeling dry as I stare at my computer screen for another solid hour and the little white squares on my iCal taunting me with the days left between me and going home. “Going home” used to be an expression casually tossed around as I climbed into my car after a day of high school or left my friend’s house after a night spent out, but now, as a fourth year in college who has spent the past 3 1/2 years living by myself, it means something more, something different. “Going home” now means packing up a small parcel of my life here at the University and taking it back to the place that constituted my life for 18 years.
One feature every University student has in common is this: we were the high school students who had the stellar GPAs and test scores, and spent our days running from practices to club meetings to tutoring and back again.
A few days ago, I opened my Facebook to 47 notifications. Needless to say, I was thrilled people were finally recognizing the caliber of my Facebook profile, which includes biannual statuses about some life-changing event and stunning tagged pictures of me at my best. My high hopes and dreams were quickly shattered when I realized what the reality entailed.
My best friends are fiercely loyal and come with no strings attached. They know my phone always dies at least three times during the day, that I have a mild Rue La La addiction — or, in their words, a severe addiction to online shopping — and that my alter ego is a cat that tends to come out when I hit a point of deliriousness.
A plethora of statuses have dotted my Facebook newsfeed in recent weeks criticizing the early onslaught of reminders heralding — Hark!
At the beginning of the semester when I had just joined The Cavalier Daily, my fellow Life columnists released a flurry of writings on something which is apparently on everyone’s mind: sex.
Girl runs. Girl falls in mud. Boy witnesses fall. Boy helps girl. Boy offers Band-Aid. Girl blushes.
From the moment we are pushed out of our mother’s vagina, ugly and crying, we are taught the value of the birthday.
I am the product of a technology boom. It defines my generation and by association, I am now scared it defines me.
People often complain about the overuse of the word “love” and how this leads to the loss of the weight it’s supposed to carry – and this is probably true.
On a Tuesday night in September, I found myself curled into a heap, resting atop a pile of pillows and blankets on the floor of one of my hallmates’ room.
