On my desk shelf, wedged between an assortment of books I have not touched since syllabus week and a massive salt rock I impulsively bought at the National Aquarium, I keep a glass box crammed full of love letters.
Fall at the University is striking. On Tuesday mornings, I walk through the Lawn archway on the West side of the Rotunda heading toward the Music Library.
It’s 1:25 a.m. and I am moderately overcome with self-loathing. I’m just starting this article — technically due a few hours ago —because, despite staring at a blank Microsoft document for two hours tonight, I couldn’t come up with a paper topic.
I spend more time than I care to admit perusing YouTube in search of valedictory and commencement addresses.
About a month and a half ago, I was less-than-cozily nestled in seat 34A on a redeye flight bound for London.
I was merely unable to think of a weird quirk which would elicit equally entertaining reactions from my fellow breakers-of-the-ice. That is, until now.
Dear recent graduate, Until we streak again.
Sitting on the Lawn today, I joined legions of slackliners, girls in sundresses and boys reminiscent of Easter eggs.
I did not join hundreds of my fellow students in the amphitheater Wednesday evening, but now I wish I had.
