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I was the one who actually made the poison order. I went online, researched my options, was disgusted by the cost and then promptly mentioned my little problem to my aunt who then graciously offered to buy it for me. And though I didn’t pay for anything, it was my name on the box that everything arrived in. However, in the end, I was the one having the hardest time accepting that we may have killed our little rodent resident.
One of my favorite things to do in life is to eat, and another is to stay in bed. It is therefore inevitable that I would like eating in bed. I’ve been surprised by the disgust people tend to express when I say I eat in bed. I clean up any crumbs I might spill.
A friend told me recently that someone she knew was applying to transfer out of Hopkins. “Even if I absolutely fucking hated it here, I don’t think I’d ever transfer,” I said to her. “I refuse to relive the stress of the college admissions process ever again.”
It’s time for engineers to stop researching weapons development. When I say engineers, I don’t only mean large organizations. I’m also talking about us — Hopkins students. We are part of a community which hopes or expects to get jobs in the defense industry. This line of work sucks an incredible amount of resources out of potentially revolutionary industries, which is harming our country and the world more than having less guns ever could.
Now that I am solidly into my second semester here, I’ve naturally been reflecting on my time in America thus far and have decided that now would be a good time to share some of the things that, six months into living here, I find (for lack of a better word) weird.
When you come out, you get a lot of things. You get an ID card from the Human Rights Campaign. You get a welcome basket with a gift card for a free body piercing. And you get a fuckton of expectations about your gender expression.
Another full week is almost over. But there’s something a bit strange about that statement. By now, many of us have likely forgotten this, but there was a national holiday just a few days ago. President’s Day went by with nearly no acknowledgement by anyone on campus, let alone a day off from classes. Fortunately, I found myself perfectly willing to forgo my homework and figure out why this holiday is considered less important than so many others by our University.
Despite living in “Seattle” all my life, in truth, there has always been a body of water separating me from authenticity. My hometown of Mercer Island, a suburb a few miles east of the Emerald City, is notorious for its culture of affluence — my preferred euphemism for snobbery.
Last September, I woke up early on a Thursday morning and took an Uber to the Planned Parenthood clinic in central Baltimore.
It was a particularly brisk day — the kind of fall day that teeters right at the edge of winter — when I crossed 31st Street last semester and made my way to the Counseling Center for my very first appointment. I wasn’t necessarily going to counseling for mental health issues, I was going to confront a fear that I’ve always had: therapy.
Before I ever experienced romantic love, I spent years wondering how it might feel. From early 2000’s Taylor Swift ballads to my grandparents’ slow dance at their 50th wedding anniversary: The world around me was teeming with romance. Beyond that, when I turned 13, the interrogations began. At family reunions, elderly men I barely knew would pinch my cheeks and inquire, “So, any dates? A beautiful girl like you, I’m surprised you’re not already married.” Please keep in mind, I was 13 years old.