I am going into battle against my own university. Reason: two 10-minute presentations, three eight-page-plus papers and two upcoming final exams.
If I’ve learned anything from the two short decades I’ve spent on this planet, it’s not to trust nice people.
You know that nice, triangular grassy patch where everyone picnics across the street from Bodo’s? Where Brooks Hall is?* It needs a name. The fact that I just had to use so many words to describe a place we go all the time is, if you ask any writer, English major or literary inclined person, an utter linguistic travesty.
I’m standing at the bus stop, scrolling through Instagram for the 10,000th time, waiting for the Inner Loop very impatiently.
To put it simply, talking about Greek life has already gotten painfully old. I’m someone who has always had qualms with the Greek system.
“Oh, you must be spoiled.” It’s a sentence I have heard frequently throughout my life. To most people, disclosing you are an only child is disclosing you are a brat.
120 polished and confident girls with shiny Pantene hair and clear smiles stare at me. I don’t recognize most of them, but they form a mass of perfection, of poise.
Walking to class the other day, I noticed a familiar looking man headed in my direction. Appearing to be in his 50s or so, he continued to approach me until he was close enough for me to confirm I did indeed recognize him.
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 due to my lack of memory.
I find myself picking up on the atmosphere we create more and more these days as I struggle to pull myself out of a strange whirlpool of stress.
For those of you who are not aware, there was a Teeny Animal Farm in the amphitheater last week. No, that is not the name of the band you’ve never heard of but pretend you know to seem cool to your friends.
Thanks to BuzzFeed, I know more about myself than I ever thought I wanted to. I know which Olsen twin I would be, which character on Gilmore Girls I would date, even which 19th century writer most accurately matches my personality.
When asked to give directions to the Lawn’s Garden VII in the Final Jeopardy round of our training game, I freeze.
Due to my immense disdain for running and my lack of any semblance of hand-eye coordination, I was never an athlete in high school.
The 10 essential U.Va. Instagrams to prepare for now that spring has — finally — arrived.
I grew up in a house where Sunday was a sacred day reserved for church in the morning and inordinate amounts of food — and hopefully football — in the afternoon. Family dinner on Sunday was an indulgent affair.
“Good god! What a useless column,” I hear you exclaim as you read the subhead. “What bumbling idiot needs advice on refining his schedule? Ratemyprofessors.com is all anyone needs for success.”
I checked my email to find my multitude of attendance points had paid off in the form of a ticket. I then won another lottery — I’m an exceptional gambler — for a coveted spot on the Hoo Crew’s free round-trip bus ride and found myself heading to New York City.
Last Friday, my street corner went up in flames and down in infamy. Wallowing in basketball-induced despair, I was none too pleased when my roommate came bustling in and yanked open our blinds.
As I sat in Alderman this morning — scrolling through BuzzFeed and procrastinating (is that redundant?) — I came across an unpleasant surprise: a quiz titled, “Which Food Network Chef is Your Spirit Animal?”
