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Life & Other Drugs, On "The Hill"

Pop-Culture Lessons for Deprived Intellectuals

May 11, 2017

In keeping with the theme of Brown’s community being incredibly varied, quirky, and unique, one of my best friends that I’ve made this past year, Sofia, has a tendency to make jokes about topics HIGHLY disparate from the normal college-aged American millennial lingo (cue one of her infamous supply and demand jokes), as well as generally not understand the references of her peers.  Her characteristic joke repertoire comes from the relatively distinct way she was raised: without much, if any, TV, specifically not American programming.  While I interspersed playing outside, devouring books about insect species, and plopping on the couch to watch a good ol’ Reading Rainbow episode, she was likely reading an actual book, probably about the legitimate meteorological principles behind rainbows.  (This is not to say that I didn’t read books, [@ Brown: I swear my admission wasn’t a flaw!!] but to say that she REALLY read books.)  As well as her TV-less childhood may have prepared her brain for college and intellectual discussion, it inevitably deprived her of full conscious understanding of the wonderful jokes that her incredibly funny friends (me, obviously) make.

Approximately 75% of my jokes hinge upon another person’s familiarity with The Office (likely due to the fact that I’ve watched the entire show 5x).  So, since Sofia is an Office-hater, despite my ceaseless pleas for her to love the show, a large majority of my jokes swoop right over her head.  “That’s what she said?” “Did I stutter?” “Do you think that doing alcohol is cool?”  Being a little stitiousOccasionally hitting someone with your carCLARICE?  Nope, completely unrecognized comedic genius from me.  Somebody isn’t laughing at my jokes??

Not only does she lack understanding of my Dwight jokes, she also has very little knowledge of Family Guy jokes.  Maybe this isn’t the most ‘couth’ or ‘worthwhile’ show, but it certainly provides a surplus of joke fodder.  I’ll admit it, it “really grinds my gears” when she doesn’t catch my jokes.  Some of you pick up on that one?  Good for you guys.  If you didn’t, do your sense of decency a disservice and watch some Family Guy episodes.  When we eat anything with whipped cream I FIGHT back the urge to incessantly repeat cool whip in Stewie’s voice.  When I stub my toe I overdramatically imitate Peter’s knee injury incident.  And, whenever I make any sort of joke about how Brian went to Brown, she definitely thinks there’s some guy she doesn’t know.

Sofia does try her best to throw some TV lingo into her daily language and sometimes her efforts aren’t entirely fruitful, as evidenced by her referring to a cookie-monster mug as “the Elmo cup.”  But, that’s what I’m here for!  Sofia: I hope these extremely (in)significant skills I’m teaching you make this friendship worthwhile.  If not?

Image via, via, and via.

Life & Other Drugs, On "The Hill"

Perkins, A Place of Few Perks

May 1, 2017

Here at Brown, we determine housing through — if you’re not familiar with it — a blood-sucking, battle-to-the-death type lottery, which any campus tour will define as super “fun,” “random,” and something that “always works out!”  I unfortunately fell prey to this tricky rhetoric and genuinely believed that a fairy-tale housing selection process was the way it was all going to be.  So, when I saw my housing selection time was 6:20 p.m. I figured, okay, that’s right in between the start and end of the process so my odds are pretty good!

A friend asked how I’d fared with my lottery number and I explained my fairly average pick-time, to which he responded, “On which day, though?”  Panic ensued. Extreme fear. Disgusting lower back sweat. Bulging eyes. The prospect that there was more than one day for picking had not even dawned on me.  I frantically searched and realized I was picking on the second day, meaning on the 7-page long list of picking order, my housing group fell on approximately page 5.5.  Page 5.5 means a ridiculously high and unsettling likelihood of living in Perkins.

PERKINS.  Are you unfamiliar with it?  Let me tell you a bit about what I’ve learned about this hell-hole via upperclassmen: small, brown water, far, smelly, defunct showers, very far, rats, and did I mention, FAR.  Upon realization that my fate was likely a residence in Perkins, I began my journey through the 5 stages of grief.

First up: denial.  I counted my spot in the housing lottery, counted those before and behind me, realized my likelihood of living there was incredibly high, and continued to act as though it was not.  Those in my housing lottery group would bring up the topic and I’d immediately change the subject, refusing to acknowledge that PERKINS would be our fate.  I’d see sophomores hopping onto their bikes to begin the strenuous trek back to their unfortunate housing, and I’d pity them, confident that I’d continue to be able to comfortably walk home to a lovely spot on Wriston.

Eventually, I came to realize that as much as I may hope for it not to be the case, living in Perkins would likely be an actuality.  And, that made me REALLY mad (i.e. those “now I’m mad” vines, #ripvine).  Friends who fared well in the housing lottery would make lighthearted jokes about me living in Perkins, and I did not take them so lightheartedly.  I was already more than a little bitter.

Then came bargaining.  What if I had entered the lottery with other people?  Screw living with my friends—I’d live with my worst enemy in Hope in lieu of side by side dorms with my BFFs in Perkins (does that make me a horrible person?? Yeah, maybe).  What if I had studied a liiiiiiitle harder for that last midterm?  I bet THEN the housing lottery gods would’ve spared me.  Was there anything now I could do, any move I can make to change this??  I’d exclusively eat ratty meat if it meant I’d be spared–which is a big step because I’m a pescatarian, but then again is that stuff even meat?

The housing gods never bargained with me, and thus came the sadness.  It’d be 3:00 p.m. on a Thursday and I’d lay in bed, already missing the convenience and specialness of my Wayland dorm.  But, self-generated sadness wasn’t enough.  I’d plug right into my sad Spotify playlist (I know I’m not the only one with one of these) and Mad World’s melancholy melodrama would spew softly out of my ear buds.  Essentially, my life was this meme:

Is this extra of me?  Entirely.  Is this necessary?  More than.

After all of my days of blues I decided to look for some potential benefits and accept the inevitable.  I took a run to check out Perkins, which I’ll admit did not take as long as I thought it would.  I ran into some current residents who explained that it had recently been renovated, the supposed rat problem was largely malicious rumors, and the slight seclusion made for an incredibly close and bonded sophomore community within Perkins.  I finally came around to the idea that living in Perkins wouldn’t be THE worst thing.  So, I waited expectantly to see my options in the housing lottery, at peace with the prospect of a home in Perkins.  But, at 6:20pm I saw a room left in Sears and screamed, loooooudly.  Here’s to hoping the lottery works out again in my favor this time next year.

Image via and via.

It's a Girl Thing, Life & Other Drugs

Always A Text Away!

April 25, 2017

Staying in contact with family and friends is an objectively good thing.  It’s nice to know a bit about what shenanigans your family is engaging in while trying to subsist without your lovely presence, and to receive advice on why you NEED to binge-watch Westworld right now, c/o your friend who stays up to date on Philo’s capabilities.  Occasional back and forths like these are informative and allow you to feign a bit of closeness, even if your family is thousands of miles away.  But group chats can spiral out of control (i.e. Britney circa shaved head phase).

Group chats in general have some irritating (to say the least) consequences.  They eliminate any possibility of ever leaving your ringer on again if you don’t want to consistently receive glares from everyone around you.  And leaving your phone on vibrate isn’t much of an option either, unless the prospect of having a vibrator in your pants at all times is something you’re into—in which case, to each their own.  Group chats also make it incredibly dicey to be a dodgy asshole.  You’re placed in a tough spot when someone from a group chat has individually texted you, you need to text something in the group chat (planning when you’re departing for chyken finger Friday obvi), and you also are attempting to ignore that individual text.  Now, you are faced with the horribly hard decision of either being a decent human being and texting the person back, or staying true to your asshole tendencies and clearly indicating you’re ignoring that text by texting in the group chat.  Tough stuff!  Sometimes group chats can even make you sad.  When nobody responds to your carefully crafted text in the group chat, it’s a tad disheartening :’-(

Group chats with your friends have their own particular set of issues.  Somehow, induction into one has come to symbolize some form of friendship—don’t you love the way us millennials do things??  I have heard horror stories about how in the middle school game these days, getting kicked out of a group chat is the ULTIMATE in petty girl drama.  And I thought the Google Buzz days were wild…  Perhaps an equally shitty experience would be catching your friends texting in a group chat without you out of the corner of your eye and having to act like you didn’t see it while actively fighting back the tears–stay strong.

Family group chats have niche problems as well.  You probably feel an obligation to be a good kid and laugh at the things your parents send in your group chat.  But you can only fake laugh so much at the Mr. Krabs meme your parent discovered approx. 4 months late in their quest to be ~hip~.   Maybe your best bet is to just mute all of your group chats.  But, let’s be real, inevitably you will cave and this will be you:

Image via, via, and via.

Life & Other Drugs, Uncategorized

How to Win Free Time and Influence Your Life

March 20, 2017

I’m awaiting Spring Break with bated breath.  My daydreams have powered me through many holed up nights in the 3rd floor stacks of the Rock, giving me the extra juice to reread my notes for the 5th time, and retain absolutely no additional information. (It’s quantity not quality that counts, people).

But contrary to the stereotypical components of a college spring break, my dream break has a few, slightly… different components.  In lieu of warm temperatures, extravagant lodging, endless streams of booze, and #goodtimez spent with friends, I have opted for the 40°F Appalachian Trail, a tent with my dad, and copious amounts of baked beans. Is that not basically the same thing??  I’d say so.

I’m not kidding you when I say this is EXACTLY the Spring Break I want, but it appears that my dad seems not to share the same view.  By this I mean, he has been slyly, and not so slyly, attempting to get out of our hiking plans—rude!!!  But this guy was in the Army— I thought he’d be dying for this trip!  Apparently, not so much…. Frankly, I think anyone in the business of looking for more effective routes to avoid plans can learn a thing or two from my dad.  This man has become a master of avoidance in an INCREDIBLY annoying way, but also in an extremely effective way.

He has been employing some nasty fear tactics.  Since my initial proposal of the hike, I have received an article approximately every other day detailing the tragic death of some poor hiker who became a ferocious grizzly bear’s dinner.  I’m 75% sure the majority of these are the production of some knock-off The Onion, but I’ll admit they’ve had an effect.  He has coupled these articles with links to several bear-repellant shops, HIGHLY insinuating that we will have cause to use the spray.  Chill with the fearmongering, Dad!!!  However, I’ll admit it’s broken down my determination to hike just a bit.  So, if you reallyyyyy wanna stay in on a Friday night and your friends are pestering you, take a lesson from my dad and whip out some scary stuff.  Because sometimes, unless you’re Ron Swanson, flat out saying no doesn’t do the trick.

Shoot your friends excessive articles about creepy uber drivers.  That’ll be SURE to get you out of any plans.  While you’re at it, remind them of that midterm they have on Monday that will MOST CERTAINLY not be helped by a wasted Friday night.  Nothing scares every Brunonian’s (not so) inner nerdiness more than the prospect of a bad grade.

My dad has also taken to barraging me with all the various prices associated with the trip.  It’s overwhelming—what even the hell is a bear bell???  Or a 3D Robotics 3-Axis Solo Gimbal?  I could not tell you. I’m betting half of the things on this list my dad has produced are unnecessary, but the numbers are still adding up.  So, if you’re working to avoid any sort of non-lateral movement, I suggest you point out the costs associated with whatever it is people are attempting to rope you into— i.e. an exorbitant cover charge, surged uber prices, an inevitable $3 waste to wash the shirt someone spilled red wine on, and general wear and tear on your muscles. These are sure to do the trick.

I’m sure your application of these tactics will be successful, but I don’t think my father’s attempts with them are going to work.  Because here he is googling the Appalachian Trail:

So I guess his maneuvers weren’t effective enough. *insert self-satisfied smirk*

Images via, via, and Christine Antoniou.

Life & Other Drugs

Bread: Can Live With It, Can’t Live Without It

March 12, 2017

My sister recently discovered that she has a suspected gluten intolerance, so, in a gesture of altruistic solidarity (and more realistically selfish self-protection), I have decided to (attempt to) go (at least partially) gluten-free.  And let me tell you, it is EVERY bit as hard as your classic soul-cycle enthusiast will claim.  The wonderful world of bread beckons at every corner–Bagel Gourmet has my heart on speed dial, and I just can’t seem to say no.

I went into this thinking I didn’t really eat a lot of gluten.  This was probably supported by the fact that I frankly didn’t understand what had gluten in it, or what gluten was, or, you know, basic food composition.  Granted my baseline knowledge of what contained gluten was lacking, but as my friend who has celiac likes to say, I was, unbeknownst to me, “being glutened!!”  Needless to say, it hadn’t dawned on me that granola, tabbouleh, and tortilla wraps have gluten—these are my staple foods, how would I survive?  (I know I’ll likely survive, but I sure as hell won’t be thriving.)

My phone search history has become a mass conglomerate of, “Does _____ have gluten?,” which frequently returns back a response of ‘maybe.’  I’m iffy on this concept of ‘may contain gluten.’  I.E. does “may contain” mean I can eat XYZ food?  Because I’ve been assuming I can. But if “may contain” means I can’t, then the world is both snatching a Rice Krispie treat out of my hand and offering me a condescending stare with a side of thinly veiled sarcasm a la this meme:

My ignorance coupled with frail willpower was an enormous recipe for disaster.  But once I had educated myself on what foods contain that little shit we call gluten, only a battle against my willpower remained. But the battle has seemed entirely uphill.

For fear of intense judgments of my character I won’t fully commit to any one side here but let’s just say in that marshmallow experiment, I’d probably take the first one.  My ‘friends’ also aren’t helping my efforts very much as they consistently offer me the remnants of their Blue Room muffins. I know you know I have a weak spot for lemon poppy seed, and I also know you know they have gluten. -_-.

But, I’ll rein in my projections and admit that nobody is forcing muffins down my throat.  I, of my own volition, am nomming on the buttery, glutteny, deliciousness that is a Blue Room muffin.  And, I’m doing so while consciously knowing I shouldn’t.  If  you are reading this, feel free to help me on this endeavor and I’ll (under great duress) give you all my muffins. :’-)

Image via, and via.

Life & Other Drugs, On "The Hill"

A Letter to Foolish Bears

March 7, 2017

Dearest classmates,

First semester of freshman year is a semester meant for exploring, trying out new clubs and classes, and getting a sense for how college is going to be (I hear freshman fall is JUST like senior fall!!)  For the most part, we haven’t pushed ourselves too far.  We took the standard number of classes, maybe joined a club or two, went out a bit on the weekends, and as every workshop loves to say, we all “leaned into discomfort.”  But, after the successful middle ground of first semester, it appears to me as though many of you view second semester as the point at which to drastically diverge from this, Robert Frost style.  Some of you are pursuing vastly hedonic lifestyles, succumbing fully to the wonders of excessive sleep and liquid bread, while others turned to stoic existences, rife with ceaseless homework and either exacerbated or newfound coffee addictions (<– have Blue State’s sales gone up since the start of second semester? LMK).

To those who are going out on a Monday night: Spare your liver!!!  I know that guy can regenerate and all, but let’s leave that to those salamanders that lose limbs.  I know you will all adamantly claim that this lifestyle is totally conducive to maintaining a good academic record, and that you’re still getting good grades, but those are just alternative facts.  For your own sake, please experience daylight a bit before you fully convert into a nocturnal creature.

To those who are in the SciLi basement until 3 a.m. on a Friday:  Why are you pushing yourself like an actual work horse?  The hard part was getting in!!  Why are you living like this now???  Drop that 5th class this instant and get out of the SciLi basement before you get to the point that sunlight burns your retinas.

In the spirit of Goldilocks’ three bear friends, us Brunonian bears ought to pick what’s “just right” for us.  I argue that extremes aren’t going to be successful for very long, and some stabilizing selection (thx @ Prof Miller) will bring everyone back to a more moderate lifestyle.  So, either that will happen or some people will burn out.  You can still evoke your uber nerd or party animal, my friends, just in moderation.

xx

Images via, via, and via.

Life & Other Drugs, On "The Hill"

Cool* Kids

February 20, 2017

I am from the Mid-Atlantic state of Maryland, where the weather cannot seem to pick a season for more than a couple of days at a time.  This results in me having a fair sense of what both sweltering and freezing temperatures are like. I’m incredibly well-adapted, what can I say?  Some of my peers, on the other hand, have dealt with very one-sided experiences of weather– from this comes a significant proportion of the Brown community who CANNOT handle a temperature below 50, and another who would probably sweat themselves to death in anything above that.

Since Providence is a chilly place– this is a fact @ my polar bear classmates who would argue otherwise!!!–  cold-adapted Brunonians naturally hold a position of power, so to speak.  Their ability to not find Providence winters abominable allows them to mock anybody who does.

I’ll join in on the fun past time of laughing and poking fun at the Canadian Geese flocks just as much as anyone else, but despite the impracticality of wearing 64 days’ worth of meal swipes on your back, at least these coats have cold-weather practicality. I mean nobody is walking around in a sweater tube like this:

(Granted, I guess cold-weather fiends find any parka as absurd as this tube???)

People from Northern states don’t stop at just mocking—they seem to have some unspoken competition for who can be the least affected by the cold.  As people walk around in parkas and full cold weather gear, others parade in shorts, short-sleeves, and believe it or not, the occasional flip-flops.  Some even think 10-degree weather is the perfect time to sip on a smoothie—foolish!!

Honestly, WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO IMPRESS???  Do you think this is the 1800s and your bare ankles are an immense turn-on???? In case your answer to that was yes, they are not, and for your own safety, please put on some pants—unless you eternally want to be like that bizarre 4th grader who insists on wearing shorts every day of the year (I know you know who I’m referring to).

Northerners, however, find it inadequate to solely react in irrational ways to the cold.  They also feel compelled to patronize anyone who is sensible about cold weather.  In response to any sort of voiced concern about being cold they fire back with: “Oh you’re cold?  That’s so cute!”  It’s 15-degrees, Tiffany, it’s PRETTY damn cold.

And when these people don’t join in on igloo- or snowman- building because that’s “so silly” or they’ve “done it too many times growing up” all they’re doing is giving up on an incredible opportunity to foster engineering skills while also pretending you are a 7-year-old whose biggest concern is not the calc midterm you have next week, but rather, getting picked last for kickball.

So, despite how irritating these Northerners can be, I remind myself, anyone who wears a coat, and particularly my friends from Miami: these people are just hurting themselves.  The perpetual goosebumps on their legs cannot be fun, and the homework they’re doing in lieu of playing in the snow most definitely is not fun, either.  Let’s just wait for those nice fiery hot months of early spring in Providence to laugh condescendingly as they sweat: “Oh you’re warm?  That’s so cute!”

*Popularity is just a social construct.

Image viavia, Suzanne Antoniou.

Life & Other Drugs, Listicles, On "The Hill"

Are YOU the Horrible Roommate?

February 13, 2017

Rarely do people fall into the temperate middle ground of being purely cordial and friendly with their roommate.  You usually either hear about someone having miraculously been matched up with their absolute soul mate, or the roommate pairing from HELL.

The soulmate roomies become inseparable: eating all meals together, recapping every bit of their time apart to each other, and switching their personal pronouns from ‘me’ to ‘we’. #coupley <3.  The roommates from hell exist in a constant state of stress, anger, and rampant shit-talking—i.e. “you’ll never guess what *insert satanic roommate’s name* did now!!!!” Sad!

Recently, my friend was describing (in a markedly derogatory tone) some of the eccentric and irritating habits of her roommate.  While processing this information, it occurred to me that she too carried out some of these behaviors; arguably some that are even more irksome.  And, in a disheartening turn of events, I realized that I’m actually also probably a horrible roommate (@ my planned roommate for sophomore year: maybe stop reading now?).  So, without further ado, here is a description of my most roommate-unfriendly idiosyncrasies that will help you realize some of your own:

  • In my most foolish move of all, I registered for a 9 a.m. on every day of the week. For the average person this would likely be an issue, but if you’ve ever met me or met someone who truly resembles a sloth as much as I do, it’s a BIG problem.                                                                                    I am essentially the antithesis of a morning person.  This poor decision manifests itself in a whole lot of poor roommate behavior.  First, I end up repeatedly snoozing my tugboat style alarm.  I know, I’m the worst.  But, when I finally exit the bed, just in the nick of time for class, I end up frantically getting ready.  This means clattering all my makeup on my desk (if there’s even time for that), a nice slam of the fridge door as I grab the yogurt I will scarf down on the way to class, and when I’m really cutting it close and don’t have time to brush my teeth, me spitting mouth wash into my trash can.  I wholeheartedly admit and agree that that is disgusting, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
  • The peanut butter spoon. This, readers, is the most atrocious thing that I do.  I have a specific spoon that I continuously use to eat peanut butter, but do not wash in between uses.  A.K.A. there is a spoon that 100% of the time is doused in peanut butter residue that just resides on top of me and my roommate’s radiator.  [Suspend your judgment for a moment unless you can truly tell me you don’t do anything even remotely as gross as this.]
  • My study habits involve me unconsciously humming my music while I have headphones in, and also The Office theme song when I’m just taking a quick break from work…. Sometimes these quick breaks turn into longer breaks and also involve me awkwardly laughing to myself as Jim (a fellow Waylander) puts Dwight’s stapler in jelly, #classic. Although I can’t tell if my roommate can for sure hear me as I make these noises, I’m sure if she can, she must find it realllllyy weird.

So, before you ever begin to bash your roommate, keep in mind that you very well could be equally as terrible.  My roommate hasn’t requested a roommate change, so clearly people are willing to put up with a fair amount of tom-foolery, but don’t take advantage of this — make an effort to be the least horrible roommate you can!  We can all be a bit more like this kind roomie:

Finally, after my contemplative look at myself and my quirks, I want to say to my impeccable freshman year roommate, from the bottom of my heart: thank you for putting up with me.  And I urge everyone to extend similar gratitude to their roommates, unless you live in a single, in which case, fuck you.

Image via, via, Suzanne Antoniou.

Life & Other Drugs, Listicles, On "The Hill"

Partying is Siiiiiiiiick!

February 2, 2017

As a leeeeetle baby freshman, I often find myself at the quintessential dorm party, sports house, or rented-out club that seem to be the staples of the first year experience.  For reference, the latter two venues both consist of FAR too many people packed into FAR too small a space (potential fire code violation???), music at decibel levels that will leave your ear drums ringing for a lot longer than the time it takes you to realize you shouldn’t have attended said event, and lights that may cause permanent vision damage.  Now, if that doesn’t already sound like the perfect environment to spend your Friday night in, get ready because I haven’t even delved into three of the most ridiculous health risks these ‘nights on the town’ can entail!

1. Solo Cup Sickness.

You’d think a stressed college student running on limited sleep already has enough factors working towards them getting sick.  So, you might be surprised to hear that parties are working to get you sick as well!  You know those stereotypical red cups whose existence allows parties to exist?  Think about them for a moment.  Have you ever really watched someone take them out of the bag before you use one?  Would it trouble you to realize that people just repeatedly reuse these cups with insufficient and intermittent washing?  Because, that is the case.  Envision the other slobbery mouths that have made contact with that cup before you use it.  Not only are you hanging out with your friends, and an overwhelming majority of people you’ve never met before, but you’re also rubbing elbows with a nice cohort of germs!!! And let me tell you, they are not NEARLY as cute as they appear to be in Osmosis Jones.  Mono, the flu, and the common cold tend to be a lot less cuddly than that little guy.

2. Toilet Paper Shortages.

These locations also leave a lot to be desired when it comes to, what I’d consider, fundamental personal hygiene.  Toilet paper: basic right, right?  No.  In what I can only explain as a vicious attack against those with small bladders, enjoyers of Taco Bell, and those essential friendships you form in the bathroom at parties, there NEVER seems to be enough toilet paper.  And sometimes when there somehow manages to be toilet paper, it’s not in usable condition.  Tragic.  An anonymous source offered a recounting of their experience with this lavatory dilemma: “I had to poop and did what I could with the situation at hand.  Seeing the drenched toilet paper in the sink was tantalizing, but it dissipated in my hand.  So, what could I do?”  Frankly, anonymous source, there isn’t much you can do besides suffer in silence.  Unless of course you decide to carry around your own roll of tp, which isn’t such a bad idea, because I know I’d choose Quilted Northern over 1 ply tp any day.

3. Sweat Smearing.

If #2 didn’t get your gag reflex going, let me tell you about one of the best party favors of all!  Traditionally, sweating and being covered in sweat has been viewed as an unfavorable condition to be in, but highlighter is coming into fashion these days and everyone seems to be looking for that natural ‘glow.’  What better way to obtain that look than from the sweat of those around you as they bang into you, mosh pit style?  Your own sweat might be a good option, but the sweat of others sorta seems like the Estee Lauder version of the drug store highlighter your own sweat constitutes.  I mean… maybe not, but positive thinking can’t hurt!

Although these experiences are potentially dangerous and certainly unsanitary, they bring you together with the classmates who will make these next 3.5 years (apologies to my 40 year-old self) the best ones of our lives.  Maybe my friendship with a new best friend will be formed as we bond over having to drip-dry or towel foreign sweat off of ourselves.  Or maybe we’ll never see each other again—or better yet, we’ll walk down the Main Green and pretend we’ve never seen each other before!  I can’t know for sure.  But since I haven’t been able to fit a sociology class into my schedule, this will have to do for now.  See Mom, I am studying on Friday nights!

Image via, via.

Life & Other Drugs, On "The Hill"

Let’s Go Streaking!

December 7, 2016

I’m undoubtedly just as much of a millennial as most people on Brown’s campus. I refer to being responsible as “adulting,” I take frequent selfies, and I engage in the occasional 12 hour binge-watch…

giphy

But my current state of mental confusion as to what the HELL the obsession with Snapstreaks is makes me feel as though I am no more technologically adept than my mother. And keep in mind, this is the woman who has coined such sweet phrases as “the snappy-chat” and “THE Facebook,” and who, despite several tutorials by me, continues to type with one finger.  I’ll admit I allow myself to fall prey to some sort of intangible need to maintain Snapstreaks (i.e. succumbing to friendly peer pressure and sending a useless picture of my face to retain that little fire emoji), but I frankly have no idea why.

I questioned a hall mate, Gokul Ajith ’20, on why he is so attached to his Snapstreaks, and I genuinely just want answers as to why this would be anyone’s response:

“To me a Snapchat streak is a bond that is second only to a wedding ring. I’ve lost some of my best friends simply because I refuse to speak to them after they have broken a Snapchat streak with me. It’s more than a streak; it’s a lifestyle.”

Shocking.  But, a main point of confusion to me in this whole affair is why anybody cares considering they are the only one who sees their streaks.  Like, ‘ahhh nice, so and so amount of people sent me a potentially shitty picture of the floor with 0 wording for so and so amount of days!!! #winning.’  Where would there be any satisfaction in this??  But, I recently discovered that people will compare how many streaks they have–making a strange game out of the whole affair.  This competition is based not only on quantity of streak partners, but also duration of streaks.  How methodical!

On first look, this appears to be an interesting contest, giving the youngins an opportunity to assert superiority, but I beg to differ that the real winners here are the ones who don’t give a fuck about maintaining their streaks.  I mean honestly, is my generation truly so fragile that our measly egos rest on the presence of a cartoon fire???  Imagine the multitude of things these snap-obsessed fiends could be accomplishing if they diverted their time away from Snapchat and towards a number of more worthy causes: beating the world record for Jo’s mozza stick consumption, fitting in another (highly necessary) nap, modeling the incredibly fashionable ways you can wear sweatpants, or even mastering the art of waking up at 8:54 and still making it in time to your 9 a.m.

So, the next time you are harassed for allowing streaks to die, or even if you’re the harasser, remember that there are far better things you could be doing with your time.  Turn that wasted time into nap time and this could be you:

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Valuable lessons.

 

Image viavia, and via.