At this point in my life, I can summarize my collegiate success into a three-digit GPA, fit 20 years worth of sweat and tears into a one-page resume and measure the quality of my education based on the Princeton Review’s rating of my university. In other words, if need be, I am 100 percent quantifiable. And, truth be told, you are too.
Waking up ready and alive is a skill that my poor, feeble, sleepy figure just simply cannot master. The morning routine includes: One, the classic pillow-over-head maneuver to block out easterly sunshine.
This summer, I got my first real job: nannying. When I agreed to the job, it was unbeknownst to me, though, that it would prompt me to rethink my entire position on parenthood, and on children in general.
There’s a strange mindset that accompanies the beginning of my fourth and last year here at U.Va., a sort of inner panging or homesickness for something but I don’t really know what.
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During my second year, I discovered the overlap between my two realms of study: writing and medicine.
Two Saturdays ago, as my roommate and I lay on the roof of my house on Gordon Avenue planning out our afternoon activities, my roommate asked to see my phone.
I am seriously obsessed with fantasy series. One of my earliest memories is of reading children’s books brimming with unicorns and fairies.
I love social media. But I also hate social media — and I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this way.
When I started writing this column three years ago, I only had one guiding principle in mind: puns. I wasn’t interested in writing opinion pieces about legitimate issues or advice columns for bewildered first-years.
Since writing a column earlier this semester about contradictions in common colloquial phrases, I’ve found an aphorism that irks me — though for different reasons. I’ve been feeling indecisive towards the phrase “a picture is worth a thousand words.”
In light of the recent Boston Marathon bombing, the fertilizer plant explosion in Texas, the anniversary of the Virginia Tech shooting on top of the recent Sandy Hook shooting still resonating in our minds and hearts, it sometimes feels as if it would be easier to give up and feel as though the world is becoming some sort of dark place. I am not writing to discredit the horrors of these events—while I was lucky enough not to personally know anyone harmed, I was certainly saddened by each of them, and my thoughts and prayers go out to all of those who were affected by these tragedies.
Last year I went at least six months without crying. For six months I laughed when I was happy and I shouted when I was angry.
Two weeks. That’s all there is left to my first year here in Wahooland. With this time left, you’d think I’d devote this last column to our beautiful University, but I’d like to move 270 miles south instead, to the heart of East Carolina University.
As I child, I often rifled through our furniture’s drawers in search of trinkets. My favorite was the pack of cocktail napkins stored in our buffet.
What does it mean to be a college student in the 21st century? It means having role models like Steve Jobs and Bill Gates, who simply couldn’t be bothered to slave over a degree.
At this moment — Sunday, April 14 at 3:22 p.m. — we have exactly 12 days of classes left. By the time this column prints, we will be well on our way to a mere ten.
There is simply no better way to spend a gorgeous Charlottesville morning than exploring our amazing brunch scene.
Before every summer break, I’m always secretly a little worried that I’ll go back home and never come back.
It’s a shame that clichés are, well, exactly that. Trite mantras that become diluted with overuse and come to be associated with Southern finger-wagging mothers.
