There is one dictating force in this universe that towers above all others, dwarfing them in its gargantuan shadow: money.
On the Saturday of our opening football game against BYU, I was among those fleeing for their lives from the menacing clouds over Scott Stadium.
This is the dream: to have Jessica Alba’s body, Kate Middleton’s poise, Jennifer Lawrence’s cool factor and no quality remotely traceable to Michael Cera.
My two years at the University of Virginia have proven some of the best memories are made in the presence of a toilet. Ladies, you know as well as I do we can’t go to the bathroom alone.
The time crunch has begun and the pressure is on. Scrolling daily through the infinite amount of study abroad options, I have examined the same online program brochures countless times.
I live in a beautiful brick house on Wertland Street — a house you or a friend probably once mistook as a fraternity satellite house, or maybe just the house with the bushes where your red cup landed during block party.
“I just wanna hook up with him and get it over with, you know? I need to move on with my life.” I snorted and shook my head as I stirred my Cheerios, slowly taking in what my refreshingly blunt hall mate, “Stephanie,” was telling me.
As I sat smiling in my car, watching a guy holding a bouquet of flowers cross the street, I began to think about how strange flowers are as a symbol of love. Now before I elaborate upon this thought, let me make a few disclaimers.
From the beginning, U.Va. has had a bit of a problem with sex. Like everything great about this beautiful school, the story begins with our old pal TJ.
Because last fall I was in Texas, this is my first football season in over a year back in good ol’ Virginia.
Two weeks ago, on that hallowed Monday night before the first day of classes, I found myself pondering a question which has plagued many the intelligent, modern female Cavalier: “What will this outfit say about me?” After all, we’d be lying to ourselves if we said that our “first day” outfits weren’t still a priority.
8:00 a.m.: Paper, column, breakfast (maybe), coffee (definitely), research proposal, shower, stress. 10:47 a.m.: Wallet, keys, phone, out the door.
I’ve always straddled the fence that divides colors and words, hoping to somehow be the bridge. When I was in third grade I tried to explain to my mom that my teacher was a green teacher and Sheridan Webster’s teacher was a blue teacher.
As a Life columnist – I’ve got a little more leeway with my language, my assumptions, and my stories, because all views are only mine.
Soon enough, the DJ switches songs. Chelsea screams that she loves this song; Brad agrees that no one could dislike Levels and suggests that they dance. What follows is a traditional motion so hideous and disjointed that it remains a miracle people perform such an act in public, let alone in an attempt to indicate intimacy and attraction.
There is a fine line between childhood and adulthood and I’m not quite sure where I stand. I suppose many college students feel this way — as if we are toeing the border, regularly stumbling onto both sides of the spectrum.
Everyone has days when if feels Daniel Powter’s “Bad Day” is playing on repeat in the background — unless I’m the only one who still appreciates that song.
Tucked away on Allied Street off McIntire Road, a Charlottesville treasure hides behind C’Ville Coffee.
Let’s just take a moment to talk about sex. Science — and the bulging evidence from the boy next to me in class — tells us that, on average, most men think of it 34.2 times per day.
Working as a camp counselor this summer, I was reacquainted with how children view the world. After countless “Stop butting me!” cries and “But he started it!” exclamations, I began to reflect on the days when my biggest worry was whether I was first or second in line for a minute-long walk down the hallway.
