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.
1) Green M&M’s I know what you’re thinking: don’t all M&M’s taste exactly the same?
In recent weeks there has been a quiz circulating my Facebook news feed. While only a handful of “Facebook-but-not-real-life-friends,” as I like to call them, took the quiz, it nonetheless caught my attention.
My childhood was full of oft-repeated clichés. This may explain my overly optimistic spirit and tendency to end advice-filled monologues to friends with uplifting aphorisms.
I am proud to announce since my arrival on Grounds, I’ve become bilingual. And while I would never want to detract from the strength of the language program here at the University, I feel like I should clarify that this development has nothing to do with my enrollment in Accelerated Introductory French this semester.
As much as I’ve matured since beginning my journey at the University — especially in recognizing my own worth — I still struggle to forgive myself for the times I’ve hopelessly failed.
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.
