We grow up being told to find our fairytale, to pursue happiness, to attain perfect pleasure. But what is happiness without meaning?
I’d love to be enrolled in the Engineering school for a day. Better yet, I’d love to be a physics major or a Nursing student or even one of those exceptionally rare Northern Virginia-born “pre-Comm” or “pre-med” first-years.
As a young child, one of the main principles I learned was to always save dessert for last. This began as a sort of mandate from my mom in order to ensure that I did not skip over my vegetables in search of the delicious chocolate that I knew would come.
I have no way of confirming this, but I think this week was a little off for everyone. I can’t remember the last time there were two snow days in a row at the University. Surprisingly, though, last weekend was beyond perfect, and I don’t think anybody — besides a couple of professors with their panties in a bunch — would have had it any other way. We got our own taste of Sochi.
I show up to my class 10 minutes early for the exam. I wait for the rest of my 25 classmates to arrive.
The best advice I have received at the University came when I least expected it. Still floating in the honeymoon period of first year, when the perks and problems of college are still fresh and exciting, I found myself walking along Rugby Road one evening with a fourth-year.
There comes a point in every girl’s life when she realizes she is no longer current. For many women, this point comes when their children begin to pepper conversation with unfamiliar acronyms. For others, it comes when they realize they spout out certain phrases with the exact intonation as their mothers.
Whenever I call people to talk on the phone, they always sound surprised I am reaching out to them so directly, like something must be wrong or else I would have sent a text.
The “CAValanche,” as we’ve so charmingly named it, came at a convenient time this year. With the 2014 Winter Olympics going on, I have re-realized my ultimate dream in life: to be a double Olympic gold medalist in curling and race-walking.
1. The FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) studier: Instagram upload, 9:18 p.m., Saturday night. Empty Clemons cubicles.
I had a comically bad day yesterday. I won’t use this space to divulge all the details, but I will say the highlight was falling asleep in an art history lecture, only to be woken up with the professor standing over me, having stopped the class of 70 to publicly shame me for dozing in her class.
After being in Paris for fewer than 24 hours, so many of my expectations are already shaken. I have surprisingly managed to fit everything into my tiny urban apartment, which is a feat in itself given my pathetic status at the airport.
I have always felt a special connection to Valentine’s Day. A few years ago, I put together the logical implications of having a birthday exactly nine months after the holiday and I feel this fact is responsible for my deeply romantic nature.
This season, I would like to moonlight as a greeting card writer — preferably of the heartbroken, slightly vulgar Joseph Gordon-Levitt variety.
A few of the more memorable things I’ve received in my life include a sportsmanship award, my U.Va. acceptance letter and an email which began, “Dear Professor Trezza.”
I recently installed the new MacBook OS X update that’s been haunting my desktop alerts for the past five weeks.
You know when something really dumb catches on, becomes widely recognized and is subsequently accepted as a norm, despite being utterly nonsensical? I’m referring to some of the more serious social epidemics: Crocs, AIM buddy profiles, YOLO and Instagram selfies.
I have seen too many of my friends get hurt because they did not love themselves and stand up for what they deserved — and that is one thing I do not want to remain quiet about. Even if, in the end, you still resent my insistence that Valentine’s Day is worthwhile, I hope you can at least take away a little extra love for yourself.
Today, it was brought to my attention my peers log into Tinder with a wide array of intentions. Basically, it perplexed me my friend actually slept with someone she met using the app. My personal philosophy is this: use it sparingly, don’t respond when someone messages you and never meet in person.
Chances are, by the time this column comes out on Friday, almost everyone who happens to read this will have already consumed hours of Super Bowl pregame, mid-game and postgame commentary.
