Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of The Collegian's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query. You can also try a Basic search
51 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
A girl was walking down Amsterdam Avenue with an old-school Adidas duffel bag and a big hankering for a soft pretzel. She was wearing a skirt that looked more like a T-shirt. Her glasses were big, clear and plastic; similar to something you'd see a nut-job scientist wear in a movie. The oversized gray hoodie she wore to cover her matted hair had a Yiddish saying scribbled on the back. As it turns out, that girl was me.
I think everybody wants to believe in something. Whether it's a god or people or nature doesn't necessarily matter. Creating a belief system is seemingly easy, but I've come to find that often during the process of searching for meaning in life, many doubts arise.
With the study-abroad decision date just around the corner, many second-year students are anxiously waiting to hear which country they will live in, study and explore for at least four months of their lives.
The other week I was at an apartment party. Upon arrival, a friend of mine introduced me to an older girl in her sorority. The girl smiled politely and shook my hand. Without asking how I was or where I was from, she proceeded to ask me which sorority I belonged to. After I told her, she said, "Oh, but which sorority did you want to be in?" Puzzled, I walked away wondering why she had asked me that.
It's wet. It's sloppy. It goes down smooth. It turns a handshake into a hug, a hug into a kiss, and a kiss into a "I swear I wasn't aiming for that." Mr. Introvert becomes Mr. Hilarious and Mr. Extrovert becomes Captain Asshole. What is the IT of which I speak?
I was sitting in the first floor of the library at a computer in the front room, staring at the computer screen. I could see, but nothing was in focus. I couldn't think. I couldn't feel. I couldn't breathe. My heart was racing. I was sweating. And the only thing running through my mind was, "Where should I run if I'm going to throw up?"
I secretly love Crocs. I'm in love with Michael Cera. I love my grandmother. I love when people aren't afraid to admit they watch "Jersey Shore." I love going to the beach, even when it's raining. I love you, opinion section readers, yes I do.
If a person in a crowded grocery store came up to me and said, "Move bitch," I'd probably punch him or her in the face. But, start blasting Ludacris' song, "Move Bitch," and there I am singing right along. I'm a hypocrite. There, I've admitted it. But I get the feeling that I am not alone.
A girl was murdered a few days ago at Gettysburg College. I knew her, but not very well. In fact, I've only met her once. She was roommates with a good friend of mine. The person charged with murdering her was her ex-boyfriend. He allegedly strangled and stabbed her until she died. It makes me sick to think that she was so brutally murdered and it makes me even sicker to think that Gettysburg College is no exception. This could happen anywhere.
Liz Monahan is not doing laundry because she will be on Facebook for the next 10 years of her sad, sad life.
I spent most of my Saturday night walking around campus. I don't know exactly what I expected to see on my stroll, but I unfortunately didn't catch any goose murderers or spot any alumni rekindling old flames in the bushes. Instead, I saw a student in Gray Court puking uncontrollably and a group of bewildered exchange students playing a board game in a lounge.