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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.
In one of my classes the teacher asked us to come up with a slogan that represented our generation. The room fell silent until someone half jokingly said something about ignorance. People contributed a smattering of other ideas but the first really stuck out to me, and suddenly I started to realize: It's the sad truth.
10. The delicious pork. I don't know about you, but that straight-off-the-skewer taste is something I crave all year. You'd think a professional cook was flown in to roast that pig to a tender perfection, and with the crispy Brioche rolls to go along with it (actually, they might be hamburger buns, but those things sure taste straight out of an expensive French bakery) the meal is worthy of a four-star restaurant. Oh, and I can't forget the baked bean dessert to top things off. My mouth is already watering.
Alright, so let's clear things up here: I'm no longer an employee of The Collegian. I loved my time on staff, but during my last four weeks of college, I'm excited to be able to spill my opinions and reflections without having any of the constraints of a Collegian staffer or editor. As such, I will be brutally honest, occasionally self-serving and probably controversial in my columns during the next few weeks, so I hope you read, relate to and respond to them.
As I sat at the head of a long table tucked away in the corner of Mom's Siam Thai restaurant, I looked at the young, happy people at my table and couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly drunk. I had not had any alcohol at this point; rather, I was completely and utterly love drunk. I was surrounded by my closest friends at this school and couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of affection for all of them. I also couldn't help but laugh because more than half of them were Collegian staff.