Hopkins is a diverse university where an incredible mix of cultures, academic interests and personalities coexist and thrive. Here is the section where you can publish your unique thoughts, ideas and perspectives on life at Hopkins and beyond.
By the end of high school, everyone in my life, especially me, had accepted that I had a depressing personality. But a mood disorder is not a personality trait.
I’m grateful that junior year is coming to a close, thankful to be out of the mindset that every week is hell week and every day is a poor day. There is no sugarcoating reality: It’s grueling to be a college student, no matter how much you love your major or how much you enjoy studying.
In honor of the seemingly next-level crossover event, Avengers: Infinity War, coming out next week, I’ve decided to reflect back on the preceding installments of the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU). Launched in 2008 with the release of the game-changing Iron Man, the MCU currently includes 17 other films, the most recent being the 10th highest-grossing film of all time, Black Panther.
Cheating has been on my mind a lot, lately. Classes have gotten harder; the material has gotten more theoretical; and the amount of time to do work hasn’t increased. In one class there was an email at the beginning of the year saying the instructor caught some students copying homework assignment answers from online, and since then I’ve seen my peers do the same. To some extent, I get it.
The delightfully terrible rom-com 27 Dresses begins with Katherine Heigl’s character Jane acting as a bridesmaid in two of her friends’ weddings simultaneously, rushing between the two, changing dresses, accessories etc. in a cab en route to each venue.
I feel fragile, but ready to go,” she said. As a rule of group therapy, all patients being discharged share how they feel and their plans for continued healing beyond the program. I looked at her, then at the other hopeful faces sitting at the table beside me.
Let me tell you a secret, good friends: I have, for most of my life, dealt with an unhealthy relationship to food. This isn’t something I ever discuss.
It’s 2 a.m. and my chest closes. Suddenly, I’m drowning in a sea. I can’t swim. I can’t breathe. I’m in physical pain that won’t stop. Pain that has no tangible symptoms but can only be described as a mental cage of thoughts that drive in over and over again with an unparalleled intensity.
Recently, I’d been feeling paralyzed. Anxiety and indecision clouded my thoughts in a way they never had before. Maybe it’s partly due to the fact that I’m only a couple of months away from entering a new decade, or maybe it’s that I’ve never been someone that thrives in times of uncertainty.
I read the majority of the book The Emperor of All Maladies on flights between Baltimore and SoCal during Thanksgiving and winter break, and I still haven’t actually finished the entire thing yet. But as far as I can tell, you would have difficulty finding a narrative that blends the journey of science and humanity as comprehensively and eloquently as this one does.
During much of the end of fall semester, I couldn’t wait until this time of year. Being inside constantly due to the cold, I was spending way more time on my phone than I wanted to, because anything on there — even just refreshing the same four apps over and over again — was better than walking outside.
Carbs are my life. I could eat just carbs for every meal for the rest of my life and be happy. I didn’t even know that eating too many carbs was supposedly unhealthy for you until I was talking about dieting with one of my high school friends, who said that she was trying to cut out as many carbs as possible in her meals.
Since it came out two months ago, Queer Eye has become a cultural sensation for the LGBTQ community (again). We love that gay shit. We watched every episode, and we have thoughts. The premise is simple: five gay men invade a Georgia man’s life for a week to renovate his home, give him a makeover and show him how to take care of himself.
Despite attending a high school with an on-time graduation rate of 95 percent, one of my best friends dropped out of high school after our sophomore year. While it would usually be inappropriate to divulge someone’s personal reasons for not completing their primary education to complete strangers, I think she would be comfortable with me sharing her story, so here it goes:
I walked up the staircase to my house’s front door, schlepping my suitcase behind me. It was overstuffed with more clothing than I could possibly need for spring break. I suspected that in a mere five minutes, my mom would hint that my hair was too long. After all, for a couple of weeks, many friends at Hopkins had been giving me the same advice.
I once read a book that changed my life. In that book, author Arundhati Roy talked about love. She talked about how we have sectioned off love and thus made it limited.
I will be the first to admit that I’m not Riverdale’s most devoted fan. I binged season one last summer but then lost interest in the most recent season’s serial killer pretty early on last fall. A few weeks ago, though, after being barraged by commercials for the midseason premiere, I decided to check back in.
“It’s strange, but I actually find my sadness quite beautiful.” I said this a few days ago, over breakfast with a somewhat new friend, and I internally cringed. Did I really just say that? Have I hit the rock bottom of artistic pretentiousness?
I don’t know about you, but I have no idea how my phone works. The same is true of most of the things in my dorm room. The fluorescent light bulbs, this computer that I’m typing on, the way my books are bound and manufactured, even the adhesive on the little sticky tabs I use for hanging pictures of cats on my wall.
