A FEW MORNINGS ago, I was wolfing down a bowl of cereal when the truth suddenly hit me. It's the millennium and we're all gonna die.
YOU HAVE to hand it to Jonathan Swift's dauntless Lemuel Gulliver. When he woke up that fine spring morning to discover himself hog-tied by a bunch of tiny island natives, he didn't fight.
BY THIS point in the semester, undergraduate life has a certain monotonous rhythm. Each morning, we get up and go to class.
AS A NATIVE Baltimorean, I have absolutely no reason to look forward to the World Series each year.
SYNCHRONIZE your watches, people. In T-minus four days, Halloween festivities will descend upon America's streets, engulfing the nation in a huge, candy-scented mushroom cloud of blissful entertainment.
UNTIL recently, I thought of my father as your basic pen-and-pencil type of guy. Give him a sheet of paper and some kind of gilded, expensive writing utensil, and he happily will compose pages of fine prose.
I BELIEVE it was Shakespeare's Juliet who quipped some delightful balrderdash about names and how they don't matter.
ACADEMICAL village, schmacademical village - who really believes in it anymore? I mean, there are myths and there are myths.
PSSST ... come over here. Yeah, you. I'm gonna tell you a secret, my friend. All those pre-millennium travel plans you're making?
AS THIS paper goes to print, I am the only black columnist on staff at the Cavalier Daily Opinion Department. Some may say this means I have more responsibility than my fellow columnists to discuss the racial issues that impact University life.
