Why is it so hard to stay fit in college? I pose the question rhetorically, because I know its answer.
Though Christmas claims the title of “best holiday” for many people, I cannot help but wonder if they have ever genuinely enjoyed my favorite day of the year in the way I have for the past 20 years.
Plato once said, “One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.” Having spent the past weeks trying to increase civic engagement and register students to vote, I’ve seen this quote moving toward becoming a reality.
It’s a chilly October night. A cold breeze chases my hallmates and me into O’Hill as we file in for a family dinner run.
I am a chronic eavesdropper. As a result, when I am trying to work I need extreme quiet. If I take a seat next to people who are talking, no matter how hard I try not to, I will end up learning their dog’s name, how drunk their roommate was last night and why they didn’t deserve to fail their test. I find myself constantly seeking out quiet environments where I can read in peace without failing to block out the noise around me.
Walking over from 15th St., we trundled over the train tracks, tipsy and giddy in Thursday night laughter, and cowboy-themed attire.
I find myself somewhat rubbed the wrong way when people give too much weight to the undergraduate major someone else is pursuing.
With the exhausting supply of fantasy football statistics proving ineffective in fueling my procrastination, I decided to check if Lou had posted the spring semester’s List, and proceeded to browse the course options for the next hour.
Most students spend their weekdays sitting in a classroom, listening to lectures or discussing readings for several hours with scattered CIO activity in between.
Every morning, my mom swishes her slippers across the floor, wearing the flannel bathrobe that is half of a matching set, given to her and my father as a wedding gift.
Charlottesville has never been a stranger to the libation scene. Thomas Jefferson set the standard with his love for elaborate parties and wine, and not much has changed in the past 200 years in that regard.
Out of the long list of things I feel like you’re supposed to have learned how to do by the time you’re out of college — including organizing your bedroom, paying bills, managing time and balancing work wisely — I still have yet to learn how to cook.
Calculus lecture. Friday, 10 a.m. – I’m trying to pay attention, but I keep nodding off. I glance around at my fellow classmates also trapped in the basement (read: dungeon) of Olsson — which smells like mold and is always at least 20 degrees colder than outside — to see if they are faring any better.
I have to make a habit of carrying a spare sock with me everywhere. It’s not rooted in a desire to use them as mittens or to make cat toys out of — which, I have been informed, is actually a thing.
This column serves as your friendly reminder we have officially entered the two-week pre-Halloween period.
The University possesses a hookup culture, as any student will readily expound. I cannot count the number of times older friends have advised me to shake away the ridiculous notions of romance bouncing around my head.
At times, somewhere in the middle of a long block of back-to-back classes, I start to feel restless.
It wasn’t until I was standing knee deep in Bethesda Fountain, smiling manically at a submerged penny, that I realized I didn’t know what I was doing with my life.
On Tuesday, our apartment fish committed suicide. We assumed it was Tuesday, at least. It really could have been any time between Friday and that afternoon, when a collective void of productivity swept my roommates and me from Charlottesville towards a brief if joyous respite back home.
I wasn’t having an academical day. It was a 15-person Religious Studies seminar, and my readings were about as complete as I was focused.
