During Spring Break, some students headed south, some east and some west. I went back home to New York. Once there, I traveled south. Then I continued to travel south, as I sunk deeper and deeper into my couch.
I went down to New Orleans this past week to embark on a right of passage every college student must eventually face: job interviews.
It’s impossible to tread the bridge on McCormick during peak class-crossing hour without catching a whiff of the pungent athleticism running through the veins of the University.
In the past two weeks, I spent more than 20 hours in the confines of a car. This was especially unpleasant considering I am one of the people physically incapable of sleeping in moving vehicles. It’s probably because the stagnancy causes all of my already excessive energy to gradually collect in my body, so I’m left to experience every moment of the trip in a state of amplified consciousness.
1. The know-it-all Did you know 34.5 percent of 14 seeded teams which score more than 4 points in the first 2 minutes and 46 seconds of the second half win 54 percent of their games if they’re wearing the color orange and the third quarter starts no later than 5:12 pm?
I found out Santa did not exist the first Christmas I can remember; the Easter bunny always freaked me out; I was pissed when I turned 11 and no letter arrived from Hogwarts; and finally, when my first baby molar came out, I didn’t tell my parents — I waited skeptically to see what the cold side of my pillow would surprise me with in the morning.
Any student who attends class knows the corner between the Amphitheater and the Lawn is a favorite spot for students aggressively promoting various clubs and events to camp.
I love you, Wahoos — and every single falsity below makes me love you all the more.
Sitting by a table at an indoor courtyard in New Orleans, an older woman with wispy gray hair and a slight hunch approached me. “There’s a dead body under that tree, you know,” she said, gesturing to the pot next to me. I did not know.
Sometimes we say meaningless things. Take, for example, the “sorry circle.” Someone accidentally gets in your way and says, “Sorry!” to make up for it — but it really wasn’t a big deal to begin with.
This past week, I was given a truly extraordinary gift. With the help of 54 friends, a humble leader and some of the most joyful children I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, I rediscovered simplicity.
I have a slightly embarrassing confession to make. A couple of weeks ago, I went to my first real, full-length a cappella concert.
In a moment in between midterm-induced nail biting and Clemson-dwelling, my friends and I retreated to Newcomb for a quick lunch.
The other day, one of my friends claimed there was no such thing as an awkward situation. She argued it is a socially constructed idea, existing only inside people’s minds. Perhaps that is true — but then, is this not enough to make awkwardness a reality?
In high school, I don’t think it would have ever occurred to me to feel grateful for my spot in a classroom.
I pull down the top of my screen and a cartoon yak turns around on itself. I look around Alderman Maps to make sure no one sees, and the lowered eyes spur my investigation.
With classes adjourning Friday for Spring Break, thousands of University students will embark on travels across the globe. Though some will head west or north with the slopes in sight, and others — this bi-weekly columnist included — will head homeward for some much needed R&R, there is one image alone that typifies collegiate Spring Break: a warm getaway to the tropical beach of your choosing.
Since moving to Paris, I have experienced several waves of what is commonly referred to as “culture shock.” Certain adjustments to life overseas were expected — stronger coffee, catcalls and copious amounts of bread.
Somewhere, sometime, in the back corner of my brain, I made the promise to myself I was only ever going to drop the word “home” in reference to one place. There’s a white house with a gravel drive and quasi-green grass on a corner lot in Richmond. That dandelion speckled plot, my friends, is hallowed ground. That’s home.
Throughout my entire childhood, I was convinced I was going to be famous. I spent an inordinate amount of time alone in my bedroom practicing my opera scales, calling our voice mail and refusing to let my parents pick up the phone so I could record myself singing and listen back to it.
