My first experience with a bowl of the Vietnamese master class soup pho — pronounced “fuh” — was at my first serious girlfriend’s house.
There’s always a point in the middle of February, in the midst of the grey skies, cold mornings and early nightfall that I begin to feel like I can’t really keep up anymore.
The strongest guidance I ever received came to me at the ripe age of 11 in a VHS recording of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” While my initial appreciation for this cinematic tour de force was the result of the ingenious and humorous scheming of the male lead, I later recognized that when it comes to defining a successful life, even the ideals of Confucius appear insignificant next to the world according to Ferris.
It would be fantastic to be able to start off a column by saying, “Three years ago today, I wrote my first column for the Cavalier Daily.” Coincidences and anniversaries are always good ways to start anew.
This weekend my neighbor uploaded a picture to Facebook of the one-year-old golden retriever staying at her house.
Every once in a while I like to delude myself into thinking that I’m classy. In my imagination, I’m the type that wakes up early, takes a cup of coffee to the porch to read the paper while petting my cat.
When it comes to being the youngest of four siblings, there are just some ways your development is going to be affected, albeit subconsciously, and you’d never know it.
This past Wednesday, I did something I haven’t done in a long, long time. Apologies to my professors, teaching assistants and GPA, but sadly this “something” doesn’t involve doing all of my assigned readings before class.
If you’re like me, you’ve spent much of your college career clocking hours in class or in the library, learning about everything from media theory to the formula for compounding interest.
Have you ever found yourself standing in a familiar setting, taking in all of the usual stimuli, only to suddenly realize how utterly absurd everything is?
A friend came by the other day and started talking to my sister about her columns. “Do you take criticism?” he asked.
Anticipation. Merriam-Webster defines it as “the act of looking forward, especially to a pleasurable expectation.” It’s the waiting period before a song’s beat drops, or the upward climb on a huge roller coaster.
I’ve never written a bucket list, as the whole thing seems kind of grim to me. That being said, there are certainly some things I want to accomplish.
It’s safe to say this has been a politically charged year at the University. Before we even set foot on Grounds, students and faculty alike took up arms to defend the name and position of University President Teresa Sullivan.
The other day, I found myself having a conversation with my roommates about television shows from our childhood.
I’m making a calendar today. A calendar of events, in which I map out my remaining months, weeks, days and hours — time I will spend at the coffee shop or the library or the small wicker desk pushed up against the wall in my oblong bedroom. I almost had a miniature panic attack last night as I lay in bed thinking about what my calendar would look like, but then I remembered that panic attacks wouldn’t fit into my weekly event lineup, so I quelled the urge to scream.
I’ve come to terms with having a complete mental breakdown roughly three times a semester. It’s practically a ritual now, where everything suddenly piles up and engulfs me, dragging me to the bottom of a lake of self-pity. To the general annoyance of my friends and neighbors, I find myself holed up in my room, eating tubs of raw cookie dough and watching reruns of television shows, attempting to convince myself that by not doing anything, I am, in fact, helping myself.
During syllabus week of a psychology class first year, the professor said something that has since implanted itself in my regular thoughts.
This past Saturday was my last Boys’ Bid Night. On one hand, it was sad to reminded of how fleeting my opportunities to wear neon workout clothes and run all over Rugby Road while buzzed off cheap liquor are.
Taking only 12 credits this semester — only one of which has mandatory attendance — means that I have more free time than ever.
