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The U.S. added yet another mark to its list of mass-shootings at the end of October when Jaylen Fryberg opened fire in his high school cafeteria in a small town in Washington state. The freshman killed a fellow classmate and injured four others before taking his own life.
It’s an easy decision to call the police when someone is bleeding out in front of you, or after you witness a car crash. But what about when the couple next door is screaming at each other, or when you see someone completely wasted being dragged up a flight of stairs? At what point do you step in?
Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. Tumblr. Pinterest. These are just a few examples of the social media platforms that exist today.
Germs and diseases are on everybody’s mind these days as the Ebola outbreak has us running for pharmaceutical facemasks.
I have not ordered a pumpkin spice latte in years. Every time fall arrives and Starbucks releases one of its most popular drinks, I make sure to never order it. I don’t avoid pumpkin spice lattes because I think I won’t enjoy the warm drink filled with fall spices, creamy milk and happiness; nor do I even object to the nearly $4 price tag. I have not had a pumpkin spice latte since I learned that the drink was associated with being “basic.”
In their 1990 hit song, “Let’s Talk About Sex,” classic rap duo Salt-N-Pepa implored hip hop fans and others to openly discuss a topic that many people go to great lengths to avoid. And though we live in a country in which the presence of sex is virtually unavoidable, it appears that only now, in 2014, we are finally ready to have "the talk." Unfortunately, as is the case with many important conversations, our nation’s sex talk comes on the heels of tragedy.
Sexual assault has led to a man-hating mission. Society has grown to view men as the perpetrators and women as the victims, which results in a very strict labeling system that does not accurately depict reality and does not help ameliorate this grave societal issue.
This past summer, I volunteered to drive a group of middle-schoolers to a trampoline gym on a church-sponsored outing. Before departing with five seventh-grade girls and one eighth-grade boy, I recalled my own prepubescent crew of comrades. I remembered our incessant shenanigans and relentless jockeying for female attention, and began to question my original motivation to volunteer.
Today as I walked from the business school to grab lunch in the Commons, I overheard an unusual insult. “What are you, a momma’s boy?” one young Richmond man asked another. In my opinion, the only acceptable reply would have been, “You’re goddamn right I’m a momma’s boy.” Unfortunately, the opposing party had a few choice words to say at this affront, and, in an attempt to remain cordial, I will spare you the details.
The U.S. government’s decision to engage in military action is always emotionally charged. A variety of factors contribute to the tension that surrounds the high-level meetings in which such deliberations occur. Even in an age in which old norms relating to the making of war fade away, we need not look further than the lost American lives in Afghanistan and Iraq in order to understand the complexity of such decisions.
Aug. 29 marked the death of yet another group of martyrs in the crusade against nutritious eating. Our beloved buffalo chicken dip will be mourned, as will his comrades who followed suit: chicken wings and cheesy bread. No proper funeral was held for these brave soldiers, so I will attempt to serve them justice in this eulogy.
Surprise! Princeton, Harvard, Williams and Amherst are the best universities and liberal arts colleges in the nation. Once again.
Sometimes it can be a little bit of a downer to return to school after a long, hot four months of working at that same summer job you've had since high school, traveling, name-dropping your fancy summer internship, spending time catching up with old friends and family, or whatever other activity you were engaged in that didn't involve homework or cafeteria food (sorry D-Hall, you're really tasty and DARN do you know how to make a panini, but you're still a cafeteria).
So, friends, the time is almost upon us again. The one day every year when sundresses, lodges and cooked meat coexist (semi) peacefully. If you happen to live your life mainly within the "Richmond bubble," as so many of us do, Pig Roast might as well be a national holiday.
Halloween. As kids, it was the chance to stockpile more candy than a small country consumes in a year. In college, it's - surprise, surprise - another chance to party, but one of the best, probably second only to Pig Roast. Trading Snickers for Smirnoff, students suit up in their scariest, their silliest, their sluttiest. But is that all? Is that why we love Oct. 31 so much? I hope not.