Tinder: It’s eerily reminiscent of your grandma wagging her finger back and forth at you, telling you, “We weren’t so superficial in my age!” — back and forth — swipe right, swipe left.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
In equating my stay in Spain to a dream, I fail to conceptualize that for many people, those small treasures I cherished comprise a daily reality.
In Stephen King’s memoir On Writing, King compares the process of crafting long works of fiction to “crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a bathtub.” Easy for him to say, considering his bathtub is equipped with a high-performance engine.
With the release of Taylor Swift’s most recent album, most of my free time not spent writing essays has been devoted to watching her music videos on repeat until the wee hours of the morning.
I spent most of my senior year burdened by the weight of making the “right” college choice — as if there was one gilded school that ensured me four blissful years of happiness.
Anyone who’s kept up with my columns this semester will have detected two general themes: etymology and shopping.
I confess: I am 20 years old and my favorite part of the weekend is going to church on Sunday mornings.
It was a frigid Friday night and Littlejohn’s was the only thing on my mind between 2 and 3 a.m.
For my high school newspaper, I once wrote a column about how soccer moms with stickers like “my dog is smarter than your honor student” are ruining America.
Several weeks ago, I wrote a column musing about how to shop for men after a botched attempt to please my housemate with a bacon bowl.
At dinner with friends the other night, I posed the question, "If you could only pick one issue to address for the rest of your life, what would it be?" The responses ranged across continents and species.
