New England in the fall, and also the quintessential Instagram picture. I’m so proud.
“You can see how this book has reached a great boundary that was called 1900. Another hundred years were ground up and churned, and what had happened was all muddied by the way folks wanted it to be—more rich and meaningful the farther back it was.”
John Steinbeck, East of Eden
“The years go by, and I’ve told the story so many times that I’m not sure anymore whether I actually remember it or whether I just remember the words I tell it with… At this point, what difference does it make whether it was me or some other man that saw Moreira killed.”
Jorge Luis Borges, “The Night of the Gifts” (Trans. Andrew Hurley)
My senior year of college, I lived in an apartment next to an old cemetery.
The cemetery had headstones and crypts that dated back to the 18th century. Several of them belonged to the college’s first students. I always wondered whether they willingly chose to be buried there out of devotion to the college, or whether academic rigor got to them before they could graduate. I typically assumed the latter.
The cemetery was mostly green and wooded. Parts of it were steep, and it even had a ravine dividing it down the middle. With its tall trees and eery voices, the graveyard was hauntingly beautiful. During the fall and spring, I used to take a shortcut through the cemetery. I was drawn to the tranquility and quiet, and of course, the dining hall on the other side. I told myself it was a shortcut, but I still doubt if it actually was. I had to climb down a sharp incline then up another hill to get across, usually taking about as much effort as just walking around the cemetery. I never dared to take the path during winter, lest I came across winter gnomes, shout in surprise, then slip, break a leg, and freeze to death. Continue reading
I’d like to congratulate you. Your passive-aggressive way of ending our friendship took some real guts.
Well, well, well. You thought I’d never find out what you did, huh? You didn’t count on me having that “Who Deleted Me” app on my Chrome browser, didja? Well, I do, so joke’s on you. I know EXACTLY what you did. You unfriended me on Facebook, and I’m never gonna forget it.
If you feel like your Starbucks barista is silently judging you based on your order, it’s because they are.
Last week, I got a strange phone call, and I still can’t make heads or tails of it. Maybe you can help… Looking for any leads.
Janis: Gretchen Wieners knows everybody’s business. She knows everything about everyone.
Damian: That’s why her hair is so big; it’s full of secrets.
Mean Girls (2004)
The opinions expressed in this blog post are the author’s own and do not reflect the views and experiences of all people with naturally curly hair. Please be advised to remember that curly-haired persons face unique challenges associated with their hair on a daily basis.
I spent half my childhood crying whenever anyone brushed my hair. Thus began the longest love-hate relationship of my life.
The unanimous Declaration of One Woman whilst shopping for clothing in the United States of America.
When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one woman to single out her greatest grievances surrounding the production and design of women’s clothing, to assume among the people of the earth a position different from that which they have hitherto occupied, but one to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to such a course.
We don’t talk anymore, we don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore, like we used to do
The following satirical essay will be much more enjoyable if you’re familiar with Charlie Puth’s “We Don’t Talk Anymore.” Most of the information in this essay is loosely based on true facts, but some of it is so loosely based on real details that it’s debatable whether “loosely based” is still an appropriate description.
Class: MUS 52.21 Contemporary Music
Due: In 1.5 hrs.
Let’s Talk about Why “We Don’t Talk Anymore”: A Lyrical Analysis of Puth
If the security personnel do their job properly, they just might cause you to miss your plane, thereby possibly saving your life.
One piece of advice I give to all incoming college freshmen is to always have a funny, lighthearted embarrassing story to tell about yourself. Icebreakers are popular in college, particularly the question: “share your most embarrassing moment.” It’s a silly question because no one wants to share their actual most humiliating moment to a group of complete strangers and relive the embarrassment. My real low points would achieve the complete opposite of breaking the ice. The room would fall silent, and everyone would feel awkward because deeply embarrassing stories are painful to hear. The only thing worse would be to say that you don’t have any embarrassing stories. (LIAR.) No, what people want is a humorous self-deprecating story of mild woe. I’ve had to answer that awful icebreaker question so many times, I have a few stories ready to go at all times. Today, I’ll be sharing one of them. Hopefully, it’ll break the ice.
Love the giver more than the gift. –Brigham Young
Happy Birthday!!! -The last words I heard before everyone went crazy.
For a long time, I put off starting a blog because I was paranoid. I feared that one day my little personal blog might get me fired from a job or some stalker would like me a bit too much and kill me in my sleep. Even today, I’m weary of writing about topics I deem “too personal” or publishing posts that might come back to haunt me.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t careful enough. I didn’t adequately analyze all the risks, nor foresee all the possible consequences of starting a blog. Fellow bloggers (and people on the fence about starting a blog), take note.