Gilmore Girls: How my food addiction began with a television show
So. Here’s what I’d like to do:
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So. Here’s what I’d like to do:
I have a problem — a very real, pressing problem — with falling asleep. Always. In any position: seated, standing, leaning casually against a doorframe. No matter the temperature of the room or the volume of the environment; no matter how socially acceptable sleeping may or may not be, a tired Lily (though let’s be real, a typical Lily) will always be found asleep.
Hear your voice on tape, or watch your face on screen, and it’s alien. Unnerving. Disturbing.
There is nothing more unnerving than letting go of what you’ve created. IFP workshops are one thing — accepting criticism, listening attentively as your peers tell you, “It’s too melodramatic” or “You could really shorten this” — but watching a production of your own play? That’s a whole new precipice of stress.
My amazing Intro to Cinema professor, Meredith Ward, always says that movies are better when watched together. There is something strangely magical about the shared cinematic experience as every laugh, every gasp, every tense, emotion-filled silence is amplified tenfold. It’s February, award show season, and as the pre-Oscar buzz fills cinephiles like myself with anticipation, the shared movie-going experience has wonderfully intoxicated this season.
When I was younger, and teachers or summer camp instructors or various adults-trying-to-relate would ask me what my favorite animal was, I would say “the human being.” They would say that wasn’t what they’d meant.
I remember when I was in high school, and “Keep Calm and Carry On” became a thing. Like, a plastered-on-your-wall, written-on-your-sweaters, embroidered-on-your-pincushions level THING. One moment my peers were stressed and angsty, and the next they were placated, professing that everything will be okay. Keep calm and carry on, Lily. I really didn’t get it.
If there’s one thing that stirs me in that young adult, I’ma-college-student-I-have-political-opinions way, it’s weak women. Subordinate ladies. Girls put down and repressed and known forever as the second sex. Yes, I’ll say it: I’m a self-proclaimed feminist, and weak women are my kryptonite.
We’re all getting too smart...
The first time I saw Charlie Chaplin sing nonsensical Italian-French-Spanish opera, I fell in love. True, this moment came only a few weeks ago, in the dark, over air-conditioned space of Hodson 213, but in my heart, Charlie and I have been on intimate terms since the beginning of time itself. Yes, I’m that person, and I have a thing for The Little Tramp.