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Humans, by nature, love to measure things. Throughout history, civilizations and individuals alike have consistently created systems of measurement: Ancient Maya charted the skies and compiled a calendar to measure time; physicists work to calculate the scale of our universe; English bishop John Wilkins invented the metric system in the 17th century.
Twist the burette, open the tap with your non-dominant hand, swirl the flask and voila! A quick and easy titration,” my chemistry lab professor said. He had been watching me do the lab and stepped up to teach me his titration technique. I observed with awe as he transformed a 10-second process into a one-second feat.
The moment my bus pulled away from the curb of Newark’s Penn Station — only late by a modest 12 minutes, impressively enough — I felt it. With only half a cup of coffee to assuage its relentless appetite, my stomach began to rumble in longing for the hometown staples I’d savored over Thanksgiving break.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I thought I would give you a story to be thankful for.
I have to admit, this Thanksgiving was probably my favorite of all time. I talked to some family I hadn’t seen in years, had two Thanksgiving feasts, reconnected with former classmates at a Friendsgiving, and it was all topped off with a nice little $1.8 billion cherry from Michael Bloomberg.
First of all, I’d like to say that I hope you all had a lovely Thanksgiving and a relaxing break. Secondly, I would like to tell you about mine.
About three weeks ago I made a Facebook post which, since then, has uprooted my life. When I made the post I did it with the intention of giving my friend a voice who had remained quiet for so long. What has followed has taught me a lot about what happens when you finally speak out about abuse — especially when explicitly stating the perpetrator.
I was having a conversation with my grandmother about my job prospects as I walked home in the rain the other day. She asked me what I wanted to do after college, which, of course, is every senior’s favorite question right now. I told her about how I was considering a lot of paths, from data analysis to marketing to management. I wasn’t sure which one was right.
The first time I visited Malibu Creek State Park was the day before I moved out of California. I had just graduated high school, and, like most kids about to live away from home for the first time in their lives, I was terrified. I spent that summer holed up in my room, watching quite a lot of television and trying to soak up as much time with my family as possible.
I both love and hate the idea of coping with mental illness through artistic expression. On the one hand, it’s a great way to “pass” an emotional imprint of something negative out of you and turn it into something you’re proud of. A sort of metaphysical turd, if you will.
It’s been a little over two months since I left my home in New Jersey. This period of time has been filled with long nights of studying; meals at the FFC (Fresh Food Cafe); a fear of getting hand, foot and mouth disease; and so much more. But, having been so caught up in my daily tasks, I haven’t had the time to reflect. So that’s what I’m taking a moment to do now.
Growing up, my family visited China twice a year. If you have ever turned on a television in China, then you’re most likely familiar with the skin care commercials: Glowing women with pearl-like complexions, basking in the whitening magic of Olay.
It’s strange to date seriously in college. To emotionally commit yourself to another person — or just to spend so much of your time with them — seems risky, almost inadvisable in such a formative moment in your life. It follows, then, that it’s even stranger to break up.
It is said that familiarity breeds contempt. Eating, studying, hanging out and maybe even sleeping with the same people makes you pretty familiar, I would say. And regardless of the fact that you may only have known them for a couple of months, constant close quarters may mean that they have granted themselves explicit permission to comment and advise you — without being prompted — on matters ranging from the trivial to the all-too personal.
In the weeks leading up to the 2018 midterm elections, Hopkins has been surprisingly full of “get out the vote” energy. But do the courts and legislatures care as much about our vote as we do? In the midst of the midterms, I look at how America’s voter policies support — or suppress — the youngest voters.
When I was young, I wanted to be a “dump truck man.” Maybe my five-year-old brain wasn’t taking the negatives of the job into account, but the appeals are obvious. First, I wouldn’t have to go to school anymore, that would be pretty sick. Adults always say they want to travel more, and on the truck I’d be traveling all day long! And do you realize how fun it would be to ride on the back of the truck? It’s like you’re getting paid to ride a roller coaster; a very stinky roller coaster. I went to the dump with my dad sometimes, so I had all the qualifications. I was ready to start immediately.
1) Wake up, workout. Take your weight and a photo for your app, Diet Diary, everyday. To make sure you’re losing weight. Workout as much as you can. Start with P90X, not enough. Get into POP Pilates. Everyday, do at least a two-hour workout.
I went home to visit my family this past weekend. We went out to dinner Saturday night, and I ordered a chicken enchilada and a chocolate milk. Before ordering, I debated in my head whether or not to get my favorite drink. I’m 19. I’m an adult. Adults don’t typically order sweetened dairy products in restaurants, but I figured that, since I was with my family, I might as well be a kid.
I am now writing to you all from Geneva, Switzerland (not Amsterdam) as I enjoy a few days at home. It is the end of the first half of my semester abroad and this has made me want to reflect a little on the time I have spent away from Hopkins so far.
“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll forget?” I asked.