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I have two waitressing jobs, two hostessing jobs and one Dairy Queen Blizzard-making stint on my resume. That's a lot of hours and a lot of grunt work. The problem is, I know most employers are going to skim over these jobs in search of the important stuff - internships.
I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. In a recent article published by "The Guardian" called "Top five regrets of the dying," this was cited as the most common regret of all, according to an Australian nurse who cared for patients during the last 12 weeks of their lives.
It's Sunday night and snowing. I have already slid and fallen once and changed out of sodden boots twice. I'm on the phone with my mother and I'm about to put an end to my procrastination. My stack of reading is on the table in my apartment, just begging me to start flipping pages.
A montage of media clips flickers into focus in front of my armchair, and a matter-of-fact voice says: "There is a moral panic in America over young women's sexuality."
It disturbs me to find places on campus I have never seen before. In the past week, I've found three. My first discovery is a random bathroom in Weinstein Hall - nothing special. My second discovery occurs when my professor unlocks a mysterious door in the journalism department to reveal a recording room with sound boards and a skylight.
Before I say anything else, let me make it clear: any liberal (or person) who calls himself an American should believe in the Constitution. I see, too often, in blogs and on television people who selectively promote their favorite parts of our governing document. Conservatives seem as if they want to tattoo the 10th Amendment (states' rights) on their chest, but often questionably cut corners around the Fourth Amendment (protection against unwarranted searches) for the sake of "national security." Liberals talk endlessly of First Amendment rights to free speech, while trying to ignore the Second Amendment. I try not to be one of those people.
The side of my face is smushed against the carpet in a room in the Tyler Haynes Commons. A group of my girlfriends is sprawled around me, and we are all in rest-mode after an endless day of classes, homework and sorority rush. We are killing time before a meeting and the sounds from a YouTube segment bubble out of my friend's laptop.
During the pre-dawn hours of daylight saving time, the sidewalks of Charleston, S.C., were pulsing with the flurry of discombobulated people who had spent their extra hour out at the bars. My friend, Harry, swung me onto a side street en route to my brother's house. We dipped through an opening in the trees and walked across a parking lot toward a small, obscure building.
This movement, at its best, is misguided. The protesters are misguided because of an inadequate understanding of definitions of terminology. This movement blames capitalism for being "unfair" and "unjust" and for being responsible for causing the occurring incidents that led to and eventually stemmed from the 2008 financial crisis that affected the world.
When I was traipsing around Scotland during my semester abroad, I noticed that the plastic bags at Tesco, the mainstream supermarket, were streaked with the slogan: "Every little helps." For the life of me, I could not figure out what the missing noun was.
Ever since my roommate burned a copy of a Dispatch CD for me, roadtrips have turned into private, alternative rock concerts that rattle my rearview mirror in its frame.
I have this vision of myself this time next year. I am bumming around in the darkness of my parents' basement wallowing in my inability to latch onto some noble, writerly pursuit.
When I was studying abroad in Scotland last fall, my phone was used only for emergencies and quick calls. But my laptop was my lifeline.
I have never understood the addiction that some people seem to have to bottled water, let alone water itself. I hardly drink anything that lacks the fizz of carbonation, the lemon tang of Crystal Light or the bitter bite of coffee.
It is certainly an odd situation to be in when your pen can destroy worlds, and it is a situation that our president finds himself in at this very moment. Sure, President Obama may be more concerned with the state of this economy and, of course, his re-election, but what sits on his desk right now carries considerable weight.
I spent the better half of my Labor Day morning dancing to the Pussycat Dolls. I'm not the most skilled when it comes to interpretive dance, so I was utterly spastic when I tried to imitate the movements of the dancing silhouette on the screen.
I don't function well without my iPod. I live parts of my days by playlists - alternative while I walk, symphonic while I write, trippy while I space out and rap while I run. Music affects my emotions to make me mellow, perky or adrenaline-rushed, and listening is a habit I hate to do without.
Fasting is a strange and time-slowing experience. In 24 hours, a fast brings self-awareness and a shift of perspective. The morning is cramped with hunger and the afternoon droops into a headache and a dull sense of lethargy. Then night comes and a forgetfulness of what it ever felt like to be full sinks in. But something else happens, too -- you forget that you are physically hungry.
Well Richmonders, after a hot, long and often boring summer, we are finally back on the campus we know and love with all the people we know, love and Facebook stalk...
Last weekend my mother told me that our 78-year-old neighbor in Charlotte was dying of a brain tumor. First, I was struck by the dull vacancy of my mind trying to wrap itself around such news. Second, I was struck by the fact that my mother waited several days after finding out herself to tell me. She said she didn't want to upset me, even though she had been feeling down for days.