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.
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.
I don’t remember how I stumbled upon David Foster Wallace, but reading one of his essays was enough to pique my interest in the writer. In “Consider the Lobster,” Wallace explores a Maine lobster festival and its focus on mass lobster consumption — historically, biologically and ethically.
Eating junk food is one of my favorite parts of life. It’s not good for me, and I tend to feel an overwhelming sense of guilt afterwards, but in the moment I just won’t be able to stop smiling. This goes for ice cream, chicken nuggets or even a cheap bowl of ramen. That’s why when I’m stressed, I open up a family-sized bag of chips and start wolfing it down.
An Anthropologie candle burned, its delicious scent filling my room as I put the finishing touches on my vision board for the rest of the spring. My room back home was and still remains my sanctuary, despite the time that has passed. Each time I return to it, a unique sense of calm fills my bones, one that I still haven’t quite managed to create for myself here at Hopkins.
One defining feature of the modern gay experience is using dating apps. While there are some explicitly gay dating apps (although Grindr can only loosely be called a “dating” app), we also use Tinder and other Straight™ things.
There are three things that I want to get out of the way before I actually get into this article. Firstly, this piece was inspired by the lovely Lily Kairis’ column last week titled “The pain of growing apart from an old friend.” If you haven’t read it, I would highly recommend that you go online and have a read of it — as soon as you’ve finished reading this one, of course.
I carry my planner with me at all times. It’s like my blankie. You might ask, “What’s so special about 50 spiral bound pages?” To be honest, I’m not so attached to the physical planner itself as much as I am to the planning. Planning, organizing and sticking to a routine helps me navigate my everyday life with generalized anxiety disorder.
