For the past couple of weeks, I’ve fallen into a routine. I start my week early Monday morning, and I can’t wait for the clock to strike 5 o’clock on Thursday.
It is humanly impossible to gain the freshman 15 — or should I say first-year 15 — and I can prove it with a simple story.
It’s hard to believe that by the time I sit down to write my next column the next president of this great nation will be elected.
As a fourth year, I’ve realized that even though we have what seems like 1700 libraries at the University, there are only so many places students can do work before the pattern starts to repeat itself.
Whoever came up with the idea of the “Things to Do Before We Graduate” list needs to be given a hug. Really, the idea is complete genius.
There is a certain way we choose to deal with memories. Sometimes we cherish them, sometimes we compartmentalize them, and sometimes, when the memories are especially fragile, we must watch them from afar. This semester, I’ve been watching a memory, carefully stepping around the delicate periphery so as not to disturb the inner sanctum.
Because I refuse to give Comcast any more business than it deserves — which is negative 800 billion customers, in case you were wondering — and because “Arrested Development” and “Breaking Bad” are on Netflix, I do not watch television at school.
I will be the first to say it — I am addicted to my phone. When I leave it in another room, I always make sure the audio is up loud so I know if someone wants to talk.
Being abroad — away from my home, friends, family and school — for more than two months has given me some new ideas about the meaning of presence.
I’ll begin with an important announcement. Christmas is only 68 days away. You’re probably thinking, “Doesn’t she mean Halloween is only two weeks away?” Nope!
A couple of weeks ago, a friend told me that several studies had found that nostalgia was the most debilitating emotion that someone can feel.
Last Thursday, while waitressing, I started to feel ill. My manager told me that I looked terrible, which would have been offensive if it weren’t true.
The lecture hall. The universal symbol of collegiate education — a motif almost as prevalent as the red solo cup, the universal symbol of “screw you, Mom.” Yes, midway through the semester I have presumed it time to discuss that pesky, bloodsucking parasite on the backside of the unceasing party that is college: learning. I use the term loosely, of course.
On behalf of the entire Cavalier Daily staff, I would like to extend a warm “Happy Midterms!” to all you lucky test takers out there — a.k.a.
I’m sure we’ve all been there. Something random breaks, a friend asks you what you should be for Halloween, you’ve bought something that looked really great on the mannequin, and now you have absolutely nothing to wear it for.
“What is taking so long??” My mother says to me, not-so-under her breath, looking viciously at the men standing idly behind the beer counter.
I came home for break, exam-weary and craving home-cooked food, desiring nothing more than to lie on my back while drooling in the general direction of the TV.
Growing up as an only child wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Although people think being an only child means you get whatever you want, there is a dark side too — … dun dun dun — the feeling that you are always being left out. As a kid, the only things that mattered to me were my Pokémon cards, my friend’s movie birthday parties and group playdates after school.
Supposedly we 20-somethings have trouble saying a particular grouping of three little words. But it occurred to me the other week that there’s another set of two words that seems even harder for people to say, myself included.
Last Tuesday I had dinner at my professor’s house. Earlier in the day I texted my friend who had dined there the night before: “Does he serve wine?” She answered in the negative. Completely sober, I chatted with 11 of my classmates during dinner, dessert and drinks — Sprite and lemonade.
