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.
Before I ever experienced romantic love, I spent years wondering how it might feel. From early 2000’s Taylor Swift ballads to my grandparents’ slow dance at their 50th wedding anniversary: The world around me was teeming with romance.
I have been dating my girlfriend, Sydney, since Valentine’s Day in the eighth grade. Yesterday marks our seven-year anniversary.
For better or worse, I’m mostly attracted to boys. But in the last few months I’ve started to think about other labels. And that terrifies me.
This Wednesday, as couples celebrate their love and single folks unify in shared independence, another humble holiday transpires below the surface — the beginning of Lent.
The friend zone. The proverbial Sunken Place in which people hate to be caught. For some, it could be the worst possible thing that could ever happen.
It was a particularly brisk day — the kind of fall day that teeters right at the edge of winter — when I crossed 31st Street last semester and made my way to the Counseling Center for my very first appointment.
This article had the potential to be the most stereotypically millennial thing I’ve ever written, aside from a caption I came close to posting on my finsta at 2 a.m. last week, in which I called the latest Snapchat update a sensory overload and a grossly inefficient redesign. (Seriously, kids, don’t download it.)
It is nice, I suppose, to be told that as women, we don’t need men to kick ass. It would be nicer, though, if we women had the luxury of exploring our sexuality without feeling that our power would be somehow diminished.
Math is like the jar of Nutella sitting on my desk while writing is like the jar of chocolate hazelnut spread on my roommate’s desk.
In honor of Valentine’s Day, I have decided to finally write about my namesake Catwoman, aka Selina Kyle, and her famously tumultuous relationship with Batman, aka Bruce Wayne, as portrayed on Fox’s Gotham.
During 11th grade Health class, my friend and I joked about the “mystique of the clitoris” when our teacher failed even to mention its existence in her lesson on sex organs. After class, shocked, we asked her why.
The question of what my favorite flavor is ought to excite me because I love ice cream, but instead it frustrates me. Every time I’m asked this question, I need at least a good 10 seconds before answering. It’s one of the most seemingly innocent questions you could ask to get to know someone better, but it unleashes a flurry of madness in my mind.
The Emmy-winning HBO fantasy drama Game of Thrones (GoT) is famous for a lot of things, like its elaborate sets and costumes, its eagerness to kill off main characters, and of course its innumerable graphic sex scenes. Many have criticized the show for being overly pornographic or displaying excessive sexual violence.
A month ago, I woke up to the worst text I had ever received in my life. It was a suicide note from a close friend. A few hours later, when another friend and I found him, it was far too late.
With the Super Bowl over (and me feeling like the only person on campus upset about the Pats losing), it may feel like time to forget about the lovely distraction that sports provide from more pressing issues. Fortunately, that isn’t the case this year. The 2018 Olympic Winter Games, hosted in PyeongChang, South Korea, begin in only a few days.
I can think of three reasons why people not from America might want to watch the Super Bowl. First is an actual like for American football and a desire to watch the game. In my humble opinion, that’s the least compelling reason to watch, but what do I know?
I was probably about five or six when I first learned that my parents were considered to be “middle aged." Naturally, I started preparing for their deaths.
At Hopkins, people are not defined socially by their Greek affiliation.” That’s what prospective students are told when they are just getting to know Hopkins. However, for freshmen drunk off an entire semester of Greekrank and hearsay — and not actual information from real-life sorority members — the opposite is true.
We spent weeks trying to figure out what we would call this column. We tried out a lot of ideas. We still aren’t sure that we’re happy with this one. But eventually, we just had to put ourselves out there.
So today is Monday, the first week of spring classes and, for graduating seniors like me, the start of our last semester as undergraduates. Some might call this “the beginning of the end.”
