Life & Other Drugs, On "The Hill"

Presenting: The Mailroom

April 24, 2017

Brown can be a self-selective place. If you’re a freshman, you’re probably hanging out in Keeney or on Pembroke. If you’re involved in Greek Life you can be found on Wriston, if you’re an athlete or an otherwise ~athletic~ person you’ll often be in the Nelson, and if you’re a senior who’s like “so done with college” you probably can’t be found because you’re holed up in your off-campus apartment.

Even the most popular spots on campus are self-selective. The Ratty is made up of mostly underclassmen, the Blue Room is full of people willing to spend too much money on a breakfast sandwich (me), the Sci Li is full of sciencey people and the Rock is flooded with Humanities kids (also me).

There is one, and only one, place on campus that is a total intersection of everyone who attends this fine university. It is mystical and unique, and there is no other place quite like it.

Presenting: The Mailroom.

Figure 1: Actual Real Life Image of the Mailroom

Everyone gets mail (shout out to moms and Amazon!) so everyone must go to the mailroom. I moved off campus this year, and I still use the mailroom because of the sheer familiarity of really bad music, extremely long lines, and most importantly, the convenience of being able to “forget” to pick up your package for several days with the knowledge that it’s being held safely in your campus box.

On a side note, has anyone ever seen these elusive campus mailboxes?? How do we know we really each have our own mailbox? Mine is 8720 (subtle call to send me ~fan mail~ guys) but how can I know if it even exists if I’ve never seen it?! Seeing is believing, as they say.

Anyway! Going to the mailroom is a multi-step process. The most exciting part, (in mine and everyone else’s opinion), is the ID swipe before you enter the mailroom, in which a v modern and cool screen informs you of how many packages you have to pick up. After you swipe, you can press “pick up now” and then enter the main room.

However! There are two catches here. One is that there is another v modern and cool screen inside the mailroom, which performs exactly the same operation, yet people seem to be unaware of its existence, causing the line for the first machine to be longer than necessary.

Second, is the underrated devastation of swiping your ID only to find out that you have “no packages at this time,” and the following sense of despair you feel as you walk out of JWW instead of through the mailroom doors.

Figure 2: Another Genuine Photograph of the Mailroom

Assuming you do in fact have a package, you make your way into the mailroom. You join the other couple dozen students in the room who are standing silently, facing towards the front desk, and waiting for their names to be called. During this time, you jealously watch other students who arrived before you receive their packages, while simultaneously listening to the worst playlist you’ve ever heard (we’re talking Taylor Swift circa 2011).

And also during this time, you can’t help but observe the students that surround you. Last weekend you and your friend complained (for the umpteenth time) that this school is too small and you know like everyone. Looking around the mailroom, however, you feel the exact opposite way. How do you know zero out of the 30 or 40 people standing here? Who are they? Where did they come from? Where have they been hiding? Is it possible that ~gasp~ you only think you know a lot of people, when in reality there are literally hundreds of students at this school you have never met?  Has the mailroom – the one and only true intersection of students on campus – caused you to have an identity crisis and question everything and everyone you have ever known???

The true magic of the mailroom lies in this moment: each one of these students takes different classes, are part of different organizations, have different concentrations, come from different cities –and yet: we all use the same mailroom. Guys, if this isn’t beauty I don’t know what is.

Images via.

It's a Girl Thing, Satire

We’re Obsessed With This Liquid Lipstick Collection Inspired by the Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862

April 21, 2017

The. Wait. Is. Over.

After six torturous months, we’ve finally got our hands on them. And we’re never letting go.

In case you haven’t heard/ don’t have internet connection/ live under a rock, Old Crone Cosmetics just dropped their  highly-anticipated Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862-Inspired “Granted” liquid lipstick collection. It’s got 12 gorgeous shades ranging from pinks to nudes to reds to yellows (say what?!) and everything in-between.

Ever since BH Cosmetics dropped the Galaxy Chic Palette in 2012 and Too Faced the Funfetti Collection in early 2017, it feels like makeup fans everywhere have been lying in wait for the next big thing. And (you heard it here first) “Granted” is it. It’s fearless, it’s flawless, and it’s inspired by one of the finest pieces of legislation concerning proceeds of federal land sales this country has ever seen.

While the full collection retails at $350, (yikes!) you can get each individual color for $40 a pop.

Sorry bank account, but every woman deserves to feel like a bit of an “act donating public lands to the several states and territories which may provide colleges for the benefit of agriculture and the mechanic arts” now and again.

But enough talking! Let’s get to the colors…

 

The Populist Girls

A near-natural blush that’s perfect for the “no makeup” look. This look was very popular during the implementation of the Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862.

Model Farm Model

A pepto-bismol pink that’s a playful nod to Iowa University’s roots as “State Agricultural College and Model Farm” under the Morrill Act of 1862.

Grant My Wish

A sunny tangerine that, like the Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862, will make any young man go west.

Morrill Dilemma 

An orangey-red as timeless as Vermont Senator Justin Smith Morrill and the bill to which he lent his name: the Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862.

Wish You Were Engine-Near

A provocative hot pink that just might keep a few engineers from graduating–unlike the Morrill Act of 1862, which increased the number of degreed engineers over 100 fold in a 50 year period.

Higher Ed Red

A sophisticated red that will make you feel right at home at elite colleges like MIT and Cornell that were made possible by the Morrill Act of 1862.

Agri-Cultured

A warm cocoa that just might inspire you to get down and dirty like the Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862 inspired agricultural programs in colleges across the country.

Civil Whore

A rich and sexy burgundy that derives its name from the Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862’s historic backdrop.

Acres Away

A bold midnight purple that’s perfect for a night out on those Morrill Act of 1862-borne college towns.

Corn Belt

A surprisingly on-trend mustard that brings to mind all of nature’s bounties–facilitated by the Morrill Act of 1862 or otherwise.

Army Candy

A striking military green that will make you ROTC (a program that colleges had to keep to maintain their land-grant status under the fine Morrill Land Grant Act of 1862) ready.

Secession Obsession

A futuristic gray that has its roots in the uniforms of confederate past. While southern states didn’t support the Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862, it still passed because the opposing states seceded.

 

So….yeah. We’re head over heels. Fingers crossed they release a collection for Morrill Act of 1890!

Let us know what your favorite color is in the comments, that is, if you can pick just one…

 

Images via, viavia, and via.

Life & Other Drugs, On "The Hill", Satire, Uncategorized

My Story: I Got a Record Deal from Humming in the Ratty

April 21, 2017

My trip to the Ratty started like any other. I got up from my table and started humming a tune the second my foot hit ground because I can’t stand to be alone with my thoughts for more than a moment. I shamelessly continued to showcase my vocal talent at the peanut butter station. I know what you’re thinking, and no, this wasn’t a teeny tiny hum, audible only to me and to dogs with enormous, floppy ears. I was humming from the heart, and the people around me definitely heard. I mean, it’s just humming. I wasn’t full out SINGING like a weirdo; I was merely producing a wordless tone through my nose with my mouth sealed shut like that time capsule my middle school buried. When are we gonna open that thing, anyway?

I guess I’m kind of weird like that, but I love humming! I did choir in high school, so it comes really naturally. I also tried out for a cappella at Brown, so, like, duh. Just one of my quirks, I guess!

Not everyone shares my passion for the art form. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hummed a ditty while in line for an omelette. In those moments, I am in my own little world — until the person in front of me says, “What?” and I have to explain, “I didn’t say anything.”

But last Tuesday, I didn’t have to do any explaining. I had just finished my meal, so I got up to bus my plate. I fell back on one of my favorite melodies: The “Five Dollar Foot Long” song on repeat. As I scraped rice pilaf into the compost bin to the beat of the tune, a woman approached me. I steeled myself for a trash-related insult, but when I looked in her eyes, I saw tears of awe.

Image result for tears of joy

“I heard you humming, and I recognized your immense talent. I’m so glad you shared your gift with every single person you pass by in here,” she gushed, laying out the paperwork.

And then I signed a deal with Interscope Records!

I know, I know, it’s crazy. What are the odds that a talent scout would compost her food in a student dining hall just in time to hear the musical stylings of a virtuoso like myself? All those years of friends and family begging me to stop humming at “inappropriate times.” All the accusations of humming loudly for the attention — I mean, yeah, I occasionally work a riff into “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” but I do that for me. I thought my biggest contribution was my ability to get songs stuck in the heads of all who cross my path… Turns out, my greatest strength is my angelic voice that has been dying to come out this whole time.

I’ve been with my label for a week now, and recording is going really well! The sound engineers don’t love that I keep humming during the instrumental intros, but like, that’s my brand, ya know? I know I’m going to be a big star — even though my vocal cords only work when I’m holding a plate from the Roots and Shoots line.

Image via and via.

Life & Other Drugs, Love & Romance

On Making the First Move

April 19, 2017

I am a young, empowered, millennial woman, who no longer has the time to wait around. It’s 2017, so why shouldn’t I make the first move when it comes the opposite sex? I’m trying to find myself a man! Or at least a consistent hook up. Or a one-time hook up. Or honestly just some male attention.

Even dating apps are encouraging women to take this first step. Take Bumble, for instance. These are changing times and I’m just flowing with them! I mean seriously, what’s the worst that could happen– they say no? I’ll just shrug it off and move on to my next potential man.

I’ve managed to send some texts on these apps, even suggesting possible hang out situations that could turn romantic. What I have failed to factor into the equation upon sending these messages are both my sensitivity levels and my emotional capacity.

I learned that the worst that can happen is not that these men say no, but that they just don’t respond at all. When this happens, I feel horrible – unwanted and not sexy. And I love feeling sexy! But for some reason, each time I make the first move, “the worst” always happens and it keeps happening.

Why would this be the case? I’m cute. I’m fun. Right… right? But these silent rejections have forced me to make some speculations as to why they don’t want to give Allie G a chance!

For some that I’ve reached out to, I’ve had previous romantic-ish encounters with him. Maybe he fears that if we do meet up again, he’ll realize he’s in love with me, but he’s just not ready for that type of commitment right now. And, I get it. I’m a lot, but I’m worth it. So if you’re not ready for the challenge, it’s understandable. Your non-response to my text hurts, but I understand your silence.

Or maybe this match has his heart set on someone else. And uh, first off, who is this chick that I have to compete with? Second, what does she have that I don’t?! I am then forced to reconsider these initial reactions, and realize that I can’t keep him from his true love. He must be ignoring me just because he can’t tempt fate. Your non-response stings… a lot, but I understand your heart.

These non-responsive and non-reciprocated feelings have nothing to do with me, right? Guys would love to date me! My mom tells me that I’m perfect, even though she thinks I might have a slight anger management problem.

Still, I do feel slightly defeated. My inner feminist wants to say “fuck those boys, there is someone out there for you. Keep putting yourself out there!” But my ego is screaming, “Allie, stop now! You’re just going to get more hurt and I literally don’t know how you’re going to take it. Save yourself.”

Making the first move seems great in theory, but in retrospect, it just reminds me that boys prioritize their self-interest. In doing so, they fail to get to really know me. They may not want a relationship with me right now or they may like someone else, but they should at least respond to my texts and tell me the truth. I don’t need some bullshit answer. And I don’t need to be ghosted. We’re all adults here. As I said, I am an empowered female who can handle the truth! And if they don’t have the decency to respond, I deserve better. Both my inner feminist and ego can agree with that.

Image via and via.

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

Keeney Gym: An Exposé

April 17, 2017

Last year, I came to the conclusion that Keeney Gym is a nexus for strange happenings after witnessing two bizarre events there. These stories could be surmised as “the time a boy jumped in through an open window, lifted one weight, then leapt back out” and “the time a group of pot-smokers inexplicably walked through the gym with lit joints while I watched on from my stationary bike, most likely listening to Bet On It from the High School Musical 2 soundtrack.”

I’ve since wondered—is Keeney Gym a place of cosmic significance? Does a high density of exercise equipment just invite shenanigans among college freshmen? Are Keeney Gym antics becoming a rite of passage, akin to eating your first spicy with, completing a Sci Li challenge, or breaking an exit sign? I’ve also wondered—what hijinks have I been missing out on this year!?

So as an amateur comedy writer investigative reporter with decades of experience in the field, I decided to go undercover to see if I could witness more tomfoolery. Perhaps, I would gain a better understanding as to why Keeney Gym is a reoccurring locale for mischief. Perhaps I would gain a hilarious tale to tell. Perhaps I would make actual gains.

After all, I hadn’t worked out in awhile and figured, ya know, two birds one stone.

On a warm Wednesday night, I went to the gym-in-question with sharp focus and ASICS sneakers on. You could call me Woodward and Bernstein, or also Adidas Just Do It (I don’t know anything about athletics). As nonchalantly as possible, I strolled over to an elliptical with my headphones on, queuing up the tunes for my workout. I should also note that aside from window-jumping and pot-smoking, I will forever associate Keeney Gym with the Velvet Underground because I have such a distinct memory of listening to them for the first time there. Your typical Velvet Underground song was not written to accompany intense exercise (which begets the question: why the hell did I workout to them in the first place?), but nonetheless I found it imperative to put the band’s discography on shuffle so I could recreate the circumstances of my previous experiences as precisely as possible.

Three minutes into my workout (a.k.a. the moment I realized I was in over my head because of my excessive panting), I decided to take in my surroundings. Most of the treadmills were occupied, which made me hopeful that a flash mob would break out. All of the windows were open, which made me hopeful that a drone would fly in to deliver food or a tiny dog. And there was a suspicious looking phone on the wall, which made me hopeful for a prank call.

Eight minutes in and I was slowing down, which I attributed to the slow, sultry voice of Nico that had just entered my ear canals. But wow, I had not worked out in a long time. Was the last time I went to the gym really that time I did the most gentle yoga sequence ever in the midst of a group of intense squatters?

After “running” one mile on the elliptical, I moved over to a stationary bike for a different viewpoint. Everyone was doing pretty standard gym things: stretching, flexing, watching episodes of Grey’s Anatomy on their iPads. Since everyone had the nerve to be normal, I let my mind wander and started devising scenarios I really wanted to happen. Here is the list I came up with:

  • a trap door opens to reveal a secret laboratory
  • the boy lifting weights grows a tentacle
  • someone is Prom-posed to
  • one of the weight machines transforms into a human man
  • the walls start to close in on themselves and I have to escape
  • the ghost of Richard Nixon floats through jangling chains with his hands raised in double V signs
  • someone runs through in the nude, and I belatedly realize it is Rod Stewart
  • free ice cream

Once I had Rod Stewart on the brain, I realized my efforts were futile. Everyone was going about their run-of-the-mill routines and no one had tried to jump in through a window and the quad didn’t even smell like weed that night and I couldn’t keep biking because I lack defined calf muscles and I had to throw in the towel, reasoning that Keeney Gym had just lost its eccentricity since my Jameson-tenure last year.

As I emerged from the gym onto Benevolent street, which was warm and shiny and slightly sticky like a puddle of Hawaiian Punch Vodka on the floor of an Everett double, a wave of realization washed over me. Could it be that, perhaps, I was the strange thing all along? Me, a sophomore in a freshman quad whose sole purpose in that space was to anticipate a weird happening (yeah, yeah, yeah and work out too I guess). Me, with my crazed eyes, my highly alert posture, Lou Reed’s voice emanating from my earbuds, was it me all along?

Sweaty and content, catching my breath under streetlights, bursting out in a joyous rendition of “Pale Blue Eyes,” I left the gym with newfound knowledge: I am weird, Keeney Gym isn’t very weird, and I need to work out more.

Image via Sarah Clapp.

On "The Hill", Satire

A Millennial’s Guide to Meme Tagging

April 16, 2017

Have you ever been tagged in a meme? Or maybe you’ve wanted to tag your friend in a meme? I have decided to create “A Millennial’s Guide to Meme Tagging” to help all my fellow social media lovers who need some help with traversing the complicated world of meme tags.

First: Spot a dank meme.

Fresh content is always the best content, so do your best to find memes that are relatively new. Usually, it’s okay to have one or two other friends previously tagged in the meme, but don’t you dare be that person that tags people in stale memes like a middle-aged mom that discovers viral trends three weeks late through Ellen. It’s embarrassing for all of us. At its essence, dankness is an ineffable quality that you can truly understand by hanging out with dank people and browsing dank places on the internet. If you’re interested, the origins of the word can be found on urban dictionary. I recommend that you just spend some time observing which memes have a lot of tags and likes on Facebook. An appropriate amount of reconnaissance is integral to using memes like a millennial.

Second: Determine a suitable friend to tag.

While deciding who to tag in a meme is often an organic process (you’ll just see the meme and think unironically, “Wow! This is so us.”), sometimes you need to be careful with who you tag. It’s important to ensure that there is no way the meme could be misinterpreted as shade–petty meme tagging is its whole own art. Also, it’s good to align yourself with other meme lovers in these dank times, so that they have a solid understanding of the semiotics of memes. Hopefully, they study of the evolution of memes with the same intensity as you and your bond of friendship will happily deepen.

Third: Lie in wait for that delicious like and reply.

This step is self-explanatory. There is nothing like the thrill of waiting for your friend to open Facebook on their phone or computer to see that sweet notification that they’ve been tagged in a meme. So many possibilities lie ahead. They could reply with a witty retort that begins fruitful banter. Someone else could insert themselves into your conversation, which will further complicate the dynamics of your squad. They could slight you by ignoring the tag and start a meme war. It’s such an exciting time to be alive.

 

Image via.

Uncategorized

Binge-Watching TV Addict or Seeker of Love?

April 14, 2017

When I think of my ideal Saturday night, I don’t think of snuggling with a dreamy man, 6’4 with dark hair and matching dark eyes, who embraces me with the firmness, but gentleness of his glorious arms. I don’t think of ripping shots at any of the two bars students go to in Providence and then dancing on the table, while everyone watches in awe of my confidence and flawlessness.

I think of planting my ass on my couch in front of my television, cutting off all forms of communication, and watching up to 10 hours worth of the same show. Give me my favorite food (ranging anywhere from sushi to a nice Bolognese) and, honestly, I probably could die right there: a happy, but lonely, woman.

You may think I’ve brought this addiction, if that’s what we want to call it, upon myself. But I kind of just slipped into it. Actually, I like to think, we all just slip into it.

You see, it’s a cycle. Someone recommends a show to you, preferably one that’s been on for a while that you just never got around to watching. You watch the pilot, and after that, you need to watch the second episode, just to make sure you really like the show. You know what, just watch episodes three and four to really confirm. The characters are still developing and coming into their own, you need a little more time to get to know them. And also, any streaming site just plays the episode right away, without you having to hit the “watch next” button. So, the show is already on – you might as well keep watching.

Before you know it, you’re halfway through the first season, so you might as well just finish it. As if you all of a sudden blacked out, you find yourself at the end of the series, 6 seasons later, looking for a new show. Thus, someone recommends you a new show to fill both your time and joy. The cycle begins again.

However, I’m not watching shows that could potentially make me more cultured, and therefore better me. I’m not addicted to cult series like Game of Thrones or award winning and informative series like O.J.: Made in America. Instead, I find myself within the depths of the reality TV show world, watching series like Keeping Up With the Kardashians, every season and spin off of The Bachelor, and my new, personal favorite, MTV’s Are You The One? When I binge these shows, I form shallow and callous relationships with cast members. I can’t tell yet whether my decision to watch these types of shows says anything about me, although I’ve gotten numerous suggestions.

But don’t knock these shows until you’ve given them a proper chance! In just three days of watching Are You The One?, my roommate and I made a spreadsheet to determine who is who’s perfect match. To give you some background on this groundbreaking show, it’s a show in which 10 women and 10 men, who are horrible in relationships, live in a house together in some tropical vacation spot. They all undergo a “scientific test” that determines who their perfect match is within the house. They have ten tries to figure out everyone’s perfect match. If they can all do it, they all win one million dollars. If they can’t, they pursue careers advertising on Instagram.

But the show really gets down to the age old question – can your true love be right in front of you without you ever knowing? For me personally, I hope that’s not the case – mainly because I haven’t met Ryan Gosling yet. While I’m in this trance of binge watching this supposedly “junkie” show, I’m learning a thing or two about love. So, essentially, I’m not an addict of ridiculous reality TV shows. I’m a person who is extremely curious about the human psyche and this experiment of whether perfect matches truly exist!

Image via.

 

It's a Girl Thing, Life & Other Drugs

People Who Throw Spaghetti Against the Wall to See if it’s Done

April 13, 2017

There are three big things that I remember seeing in the movies before I saw them in real life: sex, communion, and throwing spaghetti against the wall to see if it’s done. Needless to say the last one horrified me the most.

Even in the context of a rom-com, I couldn’t imagine anyone who eats so little spaghetti and is such a devil-may-care character for this to be a reasonable thing to do.

“But” some people will say “it works.”

You know what also works? Tasting the spaghetti.

And what happens after you throw the spaghetti against the wall? Do you leave it there? Do you clean it up? Do you display it like a trophy from a big-game hunt? Do you leave it as a snack for Santa?

Imagine, for a moment, if we extend the logic of throwing spaghetti against the wall to see if it’s done to anything else: “Just throw the green beans against the wall to see if they’re soft enough.” “Just slap the steak against the fridge to see if it’s medium-rare.” “Just toss the children I’ve been fattening up in the basement to see if they’re ready.” Completely absurd.

“But” some people will say “it’s just fun.”

Throwing spaghetti against the wall is fun in the same way that riding a unicycle to work is fun. It’s fun in the same way that lighting your entire house with tea lights is fun. It’s fun in the way that cutting your toenails with a chainsaw is. That communicating by carrier pigeon is. Throwing spaghetti against the wall is fun in the same way that driving a 1979 Ford Pinto in bumper-to-bumper traffic while smoking a cigarette, pissing into a beer bottle, and not wearing a seatbelt is fun.

Throwing spaghetti against the wall to see if it’s done represents an absolute compromise of common sense in the name of whimsy and makes a spectacle for spectacle’s sake. It’s a self-indulgent performance art that derives pleasure from its own absurdity, recklessness, and sheer disregard for other humans.

It is my firm belief that the people who throw spaghetti against the wall are the same people who would’ve thrown tomatoes at medieval people in the stockades.

I would not trust someone who throws spaghetti against the wall to be the godparent of my child, to watch my cat for a weekend, or to wear black to a funeral. These people are unadulterated loose cannons that make the choice to live their lives in a rose-colored haze and slowly depreciate the resale value of their house. These people find delight in subverting social mores bringing a whirlwind of chaos wherever they go. Just like Zooey Deschanel, Steve Jobs, and Lucifer did.

 

Image via.

Life & Other Drugs, On "The Hill"

CVS: Friend or Foe?

April 13, 2017

I don’t exaggerate when I say that CVS is a haven. I float from aisle to aisle, rocking my headphones as I contemplate my latest existential crisis. I often put nothing in my basket and end up having awkward interactions with the manager. I’m there 10x longer than the average customer, just spacing out at a package of Twizzlers, so inevitably he greets me again, thinking I’ve just walked into the store. And so, the cycle continues.

After a quick consult with Yelp, I’ve discovered that not everyone feels the same way as I do about our lovely friend on Thayer Street. All of the reviews were well-researched, honest, and funny as hell. I give you exhibit A:

“Ewww, this CVS is the definition of a ‘hot mess.’” –Melissa F.

“This CVS store is a disaster.”-Michael D.

“Who knows when a drunkie will come in looking for an aspirin.” –Carrie U. (Thank you for your concern, Carrie. We college students worry about that, too .)

There are, however, still reviews that align with my rosy view of the corporation, but with a twist. See exhibit B:

“The location is very convenient for shoppers, diners, and students. You might be needing something from the drugstore after having a very large meal…” –Robert S. (Here, Robert seems to be implying that if we feel the need to shit our pants or vom after eating at East Side Pockets, CVS should be our #1 call.)

And lastly, we have Eric C.,  who touches on one of the highlights of the CVS experience: “You should remember to bring your card so you can get your discounts and credits towards purchases!” But he later goes on to reveal the ultimate betrayal: “I do admit that I still prefer Rite Aid.” Oh Eric, don’t you know that Rite Aid is Satan’s pharmacy?

He’s right though. The CVS ExtraCare card is pretty damn cool and it’s a sure-fire way to feel like an adult, but some of the coupons are straightup judgmental, plus they escalate. See here:

$1.50 off Greeting Cards—make someone’s day! (Here, CVS assumes that I have friends, let alone friends I want to bombard with a pastel greeting card)

$2 off any GE LED Light (CVS assumes that I own a house or nice lamp to feed lightbulbs to. Or maybe I could use light bulbs as wall decorations in Grad Center…)

$5 off Severe Acne Scrub (Does this self-checkout machine have a camera?)

And lastly:

FREE Box of Kleenex Tissues–We know you cry a lot, so here just take them. (You know me too well, CVS)

You see, the coupons may diss me, but at the end of the day, CVS is still my loving friend. When I inevitably graduate, I’ll always remember this Thayer Street staple as the place where I found my true self among fluorescent aisles of shampoo and came to the realization that overanalyzing is best saved for texts, not for household coupons.

Thanks, CVS.

Image via.