Beneath the Dresses, Daisies and Debutante Balls
Ah, Ring Dance. Currently one of the most hotly debated issues on the Collegian's website and surprisingly, I seem to be the centerpiece of some of the comments. One anonymous contributor writes:
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Ah, Ring Dance. Currently one of the most hotly debated issues on the Collegian's website and surprisingly, I seem to be the centerpiece of some of the comments. One anonymous contributor writes:
I did something this semester that I thought I would never do. I became dependent on caffeine.
Two weeks ago, I started noticing stacks of stickers sitting next to the registers in the bookstore and at Passport Cafe. You may already have one.
1. You are more aware of problems in Africa than anyone else. Now, I think we all ought to feel compassion for the issues plaguing the continent. But, memorizing the infancy mortality rates due to the concentration of a bacteria in a stream in the southwest corner of Cote d'Ivoire does not make you more compassionate than the next guy, because unfortunately there is no practical connection between you making some other college kid aware and an African baby surviving.
The sun is out, the birds are singing, pollen is everywhere--whether we like it or not, summer's right around the corner. This week puts us right in the middle of one of the most ridiculous times on campus: fall course registration. There should legitimately be some sort of psych study conducted about registration, if only to entertain the researchers.
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.