I worry we are losing sight of the important things and forgetting how to be truly human. But any time I get down about all this, I am able to find comfort in literature.
We all know and love (or not) these Foxfielders.
Babysitting is a blessing and a curse. Getting paid is an obvious benefit — after all, extra cash is the only form of extra weight I welcome.
As an Asian-American, I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to be followed around by store employees, have my intelligence underestimated or be unjustly attacked by law enforcement officers because of my skin color.
During a recent phone call, one of my old friends mentioned his pledge brothers had taken to calling him by his initials.
Being a third year sucks. Don’t get me wrong, I love how much I have matured, I love having a solid group of friends and I love taking on leadership roles in extracurriculars.
On a more serious note, it’s about time someone discredited a few of the common myths associated with running.
I recently heard it’s considered unprofessional to end a sentence with an exclamation point. I find this outrageous!
Friends and strangers alike seem to always have an endless supply of stories about romantic “things” that “just ended” for “no reason.” I’ve heard countless stories of somethings that one day were all cloudless, sunny skies, and were downpouring with unexpected bouts of (purple) rain the next.
As a child, dreams were like a game for me. I would wake up and immediately try to tell someone in the house what happened, only to find 30 seconds into my description that I was making up nonsense to make up for what I couldn’t remember.
A few days ago, I knocked on my friend’s door in the middle of the afternoon to use her printer.
After years of being immersed in this seemingly bottomless pool of awe-inspiring brilliance that is the University, I've developed a tendency to romanticize strangers whom I find fascinating.
When I tell people I’m from New York, they assume I mean Manhattan. Actually, I think some of them picture me rocking an edgy outfit in Time Square, hailing a taxi whilst yelling into my cell phone.
Although race has long been on people’s radars, it has been a hushed topic of conversation at the University for several years.
I spent spring break working on a Habitat for Humanity house in Ohio through a program called Catholic Student Ministry.
Although I’m my own harshest critic, I’m encouraged by the knowledge that I’ll probably turn out quite like my mom. Her simple mom-isms are generally enough to talk me down from any self-constructed catastrophe.
Whenever the weather warms in Charlottesville, a mysterious positive energy seems to radiate from Grounds and hum within the veins of University students. Hibernation has come to an end and sunshine marks a new chapter in our vaguely repetitive student lives.
Although spring break just ended, allow me to time travel momentarily back into the cold, merciless weeks that were winter break.
I average four to five cups of coffee a day. I drink it with almost every meal, and I can usually be found in line at Starbucks — or Greenberry’s, if I’m really pressed for time — at least once a day.
I’d always thought that the truest sign of intellect was to understand references to renowned films or pieces of literature — to be able to bask in the glory of saying “I’ve seen that” or “I’ve read that” when faced with a literary allusion.
