It is especially this time of year that we start to moan and complain about being University students, about how much easier life would be if we could just quit school and escape to some exotic locale, depending solely on our skills in basket weaving. Yet, how often do we forget how amazing it is that we actually are students here?
Thomas Jefferson once said, "In matters of style, swim with the current; in matters of principle, stand like a rock." I, however, beg to differ.
Insanely jealous of the political bloggers who got to appear on CNN's midterm election coverage, I've made it my goal to become the next big blogging bombshell.
First-year students are easily spotted, tramping down Rugby Road on weekend nights with their entire dorm. Second and third-year students clog the libraries and infiltrate the leadership of CIOs, determined to be involved in as much as possible before their time at the University is up. Fourth-year students are found socializing on the Lawn and can be picked out in other locations by the sad gleam in their eyes, realizing they only have one more semester left at the University. But what about graduate students in the College?
When I was 12 and he was 15, I caught my cousin smoking in our grandmother's backyard. At first I thought I had discovered some great secret, one in which I could exploit to my selfish pre-teen advantage.
In 2004, Frommer's rated Charlottesville as the best city in America to live in. That same year, Irated Charlottesville as the longest word I knew how to spell (that title still holds). So what makes this town the best?
A chilly breeze whipped against people's faces as streetlamps and lights from the restaurants lining the street illuminated a typical night on the Corner.
Having essentially crafted her own undergraduate and graduate career in interdisciplinary fashion, it is no wonder that Asst.
Jagshemash! Aren't familiar with my greeting? Then you desperately need to get yourself to a movie theater or at least log on to YouTube.
In a university setting rich with history, the Jefferson Literary and Debating Society holds a distinguished position.
When I came to college as a tender and innocent 18-year-old, I tried to pay heed to all the various warnings I received: "Don't eat too much -- it's easy to gain weight in college," "Get enough sleep every night," "Don't drink the punch, whatever you do." I've done pretty well with all of these, a claim that, as long as there are no scales around, no one can dispute. I received one additional mandate before leaving home: "Remember, you need to do more studying in college than in high school.
At the University, the diverse student body not only includesstudents of varying race, gender and sexul orientation but age as well.
Usually, I am not one for making predic-tions, as I have learned by now that my predictive power about equals that of Miss Cleo.
Fresh-faced high school graduates, we entered college ready to embark on a journey of self-discovery.
Finally Switzerland has another claim to fame besides delicious chocolate and its cowardly neutrality during World Wars: the eradicator of mankind, the Earth, the Universe and perhaps even cockroaches.
Ever since my mother decided to place me in kindergarten at the age of 4, I have been cursed. I was the last person in my class to pass the five-foot mark, the last person to obtain a driver's license and the last person to reach that vital legality of 18 years.
Tired of being accused of "just making things up" and "writing about nothing" by my Opinion columnist friend, I decided to embark on a journey to discover the true secrets of the place we call "Club Clemons." My original intent was to report back in the form of entries into my private diary.
Trying to come up with a topic for my column this week was tough. There are many things in our lives, socks for instance, that are important but not worthy of space in this newspaper.
I didn't dress up for Halloween this year. Maybe I was just being a party-pooper, or perhaps the quest to find the perfect costume, which for today's modern woman includes fishnet stockings and a "cute" corset of some kind, seemed like more trouble than it was worth.
A raven sits on the windowsill, a stack of books beside it. In the corner stands a wooden desk, a book lying open on top. Alongside the hustle and bustle of students rushing to and from class, there stands a room different from all the rest: West Range 13.
