Sundays on a college campus are a rare specimen of ratchet. Delaying the onset of homework and a heavy hangover, students unapologetically stuff themselves with brunch and bawdy tales of debauchery from the weekend’s late nights.
As my third year at the University draws to a close, I feel understand more than ever how absurd it is to expect teenagers to have decided on their desired career path before high school graduation.
That was my answer whenever anyone asked me how school was going during fall semester.
What they say about Charlottesville is true. We have some of the best food in the country, yet I can’t remember the last time I had a meal anywhere off the Corner.
I hate to be the one to say it, but finals are coming — cue “Game of Thrones” theme song. In turn, I have compiled a list of tips and tricks to get us through the homestretch of the semester.
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.
