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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.
Wrapping up my Gotham arc, I will now delve into the relationship between Selina Kyle (Camren Bicondova) and Bruce Wayne (David Mazouz) in season four. The teens have individually been making significant strides toward transforming into their iconic alter egos Catwoman and Batman, but they have also drifted apart. As the season nears its end, though, they’ve finally started finding their way back to one another. (WARNING: Spoilers)
Now in their mid-teenage years, the future Batman and Catwoman start to act on their feelings for one another. However, as their communication skills continue to lag, underlying issues threaten to tear the duo apart.
I’m trying to find the beauty in small things. And there is so much, there is so much that is beautiful. Look around, even as I sit in the fluorescently lit B-level, I see the wood and the tiny dark grains of brown forming curves (perfect hyperbolas!!) in the mustard yellow of the table, and I find that beautiful.
That night, that officer didn’t see two students but rather saw two suspects. His reason for stopping us related strongly to profiling. Considering that he didn’t even ask my friend for ID or proof of age, it was clear that even he knew his reason for stopping us had little to do with any curfew.
But like anything in this world, friendships cannot last forever. Whether through geographic distance or simply growing apart, I (like everyone) have lost so many friends through the years. It is a bittersweet reality I often ignore. But with the ever-thrumming churn of my brain, occasionally nostalgia pulls me back.
I’m tired of waiting for people to explain things that I already know. I’m tired of making sure that the ideas I raise and take ownership of don’t sound arrogant. I’m tired of caring about group dynamics and making sure I have all the right “soft skills.”
White feminism doesn’t account for the nuances in identity, particularly in race, but also in disability or sexuality. As one of my Muslim friends pointed out, white feminism was the feminist telling Muslim women to stop wearing a hijab because, “Don’t you want to be free?”
My feelings toward classic works of literature, or more specifically, toward British literature, have never been outstandingly positive. I never really enjoyed reading Pride and Prejudice or Wuthering Heights in high school, which wasn’t great because we had at least an entire year’s worth of English dedicated to British literature.
