From infancy, I was raised as a Cardinals fan. The early days of baseball were uncomplicated. The Baltimore Orioles were the closest team in proximity ? the only team for which it was actually possible to attend games ? but I was an exclusive Cardinals devotee, as St.
Earlier today, I was listening to my 90’s playlist on Spotify – no shame.
It’s 5 a.m. and a man as wide as he is tall is yelling Spanish curses in my ear. I’m tired, sore, soaked to the bone and more than anything else humiliated by the fact that I apparently have no idea how to use a lawn mower.
What I wouldn’t do for a good Danish ? an incredible marriage of butter, sugar, yeast, eggs and cheese.
Freed from the confines of dorms into the world of air-conditioned bedrooms, I am fortunate enough to spend my second year of college with an apartment as home.
The other night while playing frisbee in the dark ? in retrospect a poor idea ? I had a revelation.
My father’s good friend always says, “Nothing good ever happens past midnight.” I beg to differ.
My dad is the epitome of going with the flow.
“I love this song!” I shout over the howl of the wind as my best friend and I cruise down 14th Street.
Near the beginning of Vampire Weekend’s self-titled debut album, the singer asks a question that will no doubt echo through history, “Who gives a [crap] about the oxford comma?” I like this album, but the question has always felt like a personal assault since I am an English major.
When darkness creeps into our lives, it’s hard to have faith.
I was going to submit an article about something lighthearted this week.
We walk quietly together, the lights and warmth of the Lawn behind us, through the construction and past the deepened slopes of Mad Bowl to our homes.
A couple of weeks ago in class, I seriously thought I might have to tackle someone. It happened in an “Unforgettable Lectures” class — and it was unforgettable, though not entirely for the reasons advertised.
Some may claim my sluggish behavior is a sign of senioritis — a virus difficult to diagnose. Contrary to popular belief and student-perpetuated myth, senioritis does not affect only those students on the cusp of graduation. I would hypothesize we are all born with a small dose of this poison and, unfortunately, there is no cure. No amount of illegal study drugs will save us.
Sitting in a folding chair next to neat piles of saffron, cumin and sumaq, a portly man with an unbuttoned linen shirt looked me over as I lingered to take a photo of his vibrant spices.
It is 10:11 p.m. and I am running. The sun set hours ago and my eyes are already beginning to droop from exhaustion, yet I move as quickly as my feet will take me.
The idea behind writing the honor pledge is fairly simple; it both affirms the student has not somehow failed to notice the concept of honor during his time at the University and requires the student to explicitly give his word. To me, however, the pledge is a ceremonial act.
Coming to college, I had no idea how much I would miss being around real people. Now, we are all, of course, very real and I don’t mean to depreciate our value as University students, but I mean real people as in mothers and fathers, babies and grandparents, little sisters and big brothers.
There are several narratives of my experiences I could use to preface a column that attempts to explain my feelings about the rampant presence of sexual objectification on U.Va.
