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.
I can still remember the day my little brother was born—January 1st, 1994. There was a picture taken of me talking to my mother as she lays in the hospital bed, wearing my bright blue “I’m a sister!” sweatshirt and remaining blissfully unaware of the small, sleeping baby in the background.
If there’s one thing college has taught me, it’s that it is impossible to have everything figured out all the time.
Fourth grade was my golden year. I know telling you this is to publicly declare I am totally lame, but I have to say — those were the days. I mean, my middle part / gaucho pant combo was super trendy, and I had my multiplication tables memorized like nobody’s business. One could even say I was killing it.
January has been a good month for Virginia Basketball fans. While some might fixate on obvious achievements—Mike Scott’s blossoming NBA career, blow-outs against seven of our first eight ACC opponents and the label of best team in the country according to ESPN’s BPI ranking—there have also been some subtler developments. The first of these is finally overcoming the Canes Challenge.
“Name, year, major, hometown … oh, and what’s the most datable building on Grounds?” It’s my icebreaker of choice.
All in all, I led a very blessed childhood. This can probably be attributed to my family, which is functional to the point of strangeness.
Alas, the holiday season has officially ended and with it my excuses to eat and drink as I’d like.
I often ponder the big questions of life—things like whether the universe is infinite, if time travel is possible and why dentists and hair stylists feel the need to talk to you during every second of your appointment.
I recently witnessed a social networking blunder of the most mortifying caliber: the cringe-worthy accidental Facebook poke.
“Hey, bitch, give me your number,” one yelled. “I lost my number. I think I need yours,” another called. I wanted to turn around and give them all the middle finger, to tell them why their actions were wrong, why their words hurt not just me, but themselves too.
To return to Grounds after a month-long recess is to return to the town of Charlottesville, classes and most importantly, your friends at U.Va.
It’s that time of the year. Well, it just was. I, along with 1,000 of my compatriots, sacrificed three days of shower pressure and milk that does not come out of bags to move back in early and participate in what is certainly one of the weirdest experiences of my life.
I am not traditionally one to call myself superstitious, but my reflections have been making me suspicious as I consider that 2013 was perhaps the crappiest — for lack of a more appropriate term — year of my life to date.
To borrow a phrase from my second favorite critically-acclaimed musical talent, A-Teens, my life is currently “upside down, bouncing off the ceilings.” If you are cut from a more high-modernist cloth, the words of T.S. Eliot surmise my sentiments quite nicely: “things fall apart.”
It’s always funny how the smallest things can make lasting lifelong impressions on you — a certain song, a commercial on TV, or just a phrase from a book.
In many ways I am a typical University student. I have always overscheduled myself, and just when I think I am at my limit, I add something else to my plate and manage to make it work. Last semester, though, I believe I finally hit the ceiling for the amount of things I was able to do.
Under my bed in Balz-Dobie is a small shoebox filled to capacity with notes, photographs and nostalgia.
