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

Jo’s: The Makeover Edition

September 27, 2017

I know we really don’t pay much attention to the overall effectiveness of Josiah’s eatery, a late-night establishment famous for saving the lives of many a drunk creature by injecting greasy calories into our bloodstreams, but in recent years the remodeling of campus eateries has left Jo’s sadly in the dust. The Ratty has her snazzy new salad bar, the Blue Room now blesses us with Sushi Fridays, so why am I still wandering drunk around Jo’s every Friday night, lost, hungry, and covered in a fine sheen of oil? Moisturizing or not, I owe Jo’s a favor or two in return for saving me from my choices many an evening. Didn’t we all come to Brown for the open curriculum and stay for the spicy-withs, anyway? But let’s face it: Jo’s is in dire need of a makeover.

Thus, I’ve compiled a list of ways that Jo’s may more effectively cater to its target demographic. Behold, the Jo’s of the not-so-distant future: Continue Reading…

It's a Girl Thing, Life & Other Drugs, Love & Romance, Satire

The Everygirl’s Guide to Tinder

September 19, 2017

Well here I am, single again. No it’s cool, I’m okay, unfurrow your brows. Fortunately for all of us, I’m slowly but surely moving out of the “crying in line at the bank” phase and progressing into the “tequila will never leave me” part of the grieving process. Oh, and I’ve made myself a Tinder account. Admit it ladies, there’s honestly nothing more gruesomely satisfying than rating a man based on four low-qual photos of him at his senior prom and two lines of poorly-constructed self-reflection. Especially when one certain member of his species has Maced your heart in the face. Or perhaps you’re not in some sort of emotional spiral at all, you are a self-respecting, responsible young lady out here looking for love on a handheld device. More power to you. Future spinsters and social goddesses alike, I have compiled for us all a quick and easy guide to navigating the fuckboy hellscape that is Tinder. Enjoy. Continue Reading…

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

How To Cry Silently In Your Midterm (And Other Nifty College Hacks)

March 19, 2017

Everyone says college is the best time of your life, but sometimes it can be just a tad overwhelming. Use these nifty college life hacks to streamline the efficiency of your descent into hell!

  • Leave your flashcards/old quizzes/syllabi strewn haphazardly across your desk. No matter what you’re doing, you’ll always be able to see your neglected responsibilities staring up at you like abandoned puppies. As an added bonus, they’ll get wonderfully stained with food and alcohol and flawlessly pull off a metaphor for your messy life.
  • Waste your limited money on random shit from Amazon. Nothing says joy quite like that “you’ve got a package” email glittering in your inbox every couple of weeks. Also torn-up cardboard boxes and limp bubble wrap are the epitome of chic room decor. Everyone’s going for that lived-in, did-a-raccoon-get-in-here look these days.
  • Live out of a dryer for a week. Sacrifice the respect of the people in your dorm by never ever taking your laundry out of the dryer and simply grabbing it outfit by outfit until it’s all dirty again. This works best if you’re constantly late and/or don’t give a single shit about your appearance or other people.
  • Don’t drink water. “Keep it interesting” for your body by staying in a constant state of mild dehydration. This way, water will taste incredible whenever you actually have a glass, you know, like normal people do. Besides, being dehydrated makes working out extra terrible, so you’ll have a great excuse to not go to the gym. Something along the lines of “Oh, I’ll have to drink some water first,” and then never ever actually moving your raisiny ass.
  • The Dirty Dishes Diet Plan: Get all your mugs and silverware super dirty and then just leave em out. You’ll never overeat because that would require washing them. Bonus points if they start to look gross enough to deter your appetite. Spring break bodies are only a weird smell away!
  • Do your assigned readings on the walk to your class. Cramming it all in last minute keeps the info fresh in your brain for discussion. Panic will sharpen your bullshitting skills. Plus, with your nose in a book you may get run down by a car and then not have to worry about class at all.
  • Wear a huge scarf to your midterms. The wool will soak up your tears and flopsweat and muffle the helpless whimpers. All the support of a security blanket with an added element of fashion!
  • Develop an unhealthy caffeine addiction. Not only will this aid you in your quest to be eternally thirsty, but it’ll also stain your teeth a lovely shade of don’t-approach-me yellow. Nothing makes a 9 am class more survivable than indulging in mild drug use. Think of your addiction to coffee as an investment in a character-building moment in your future when you try to quit it an inevitably fail.
  • Stay consistently unprepared. Asking that cute guy in your bio class for a pen is a wonderful icebreaker. Losing it and asking for another the next day is a great way to let him know you are terrible with responsibility and memory. Weed out the people who refuse to deal with your shit, and find the ones who can look blindly past it!

With these hacks, any wee undergrad can work her way to the top! Just don’t forget to balance these with classes, homework, making money, human contact, nutrition, basic hygiene, and the will to carry on. Happy Learning!

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

Open Letters: 10 Things That Need To Get Their Shit Together

March 12, 2017

Overall, I like to think life is pretty good. But every once in a while, I stumble upon something that just isn’t achieving its full potential. To express my frustration, I have compiled a list of open letters to the top ten things that need to step up their existence in this world:


Dear Raisin Bran,

We all know the whole “two scoops of raisins” is a dirty lie. I come across a raisin once every three years. Please improve your slimy texture and altogether deceitful nature. Also, weren’t you invented to keep kids from feeling themselves? Because you’re actually achieving that perfectly.


Mouths Everywhere


Dear stray cats,

Please make the sounds of fighting and mating just a little more different. I would love to know if I should be grossed out or solely afraid of whatever is happening outside at night. Please either fight rougher or screw better. Evolve for the sake of us all.


Cat Person Who Also Values Sleep


Dear chalkboards,

It’s 2017. Be whiteboards already. This isn’t Dead Poets Society. Squeaking is so last century. You and clarinets are in dire need of an upgrade.


My Ears


Dear Halloween,

Can you relocate to a warmer month? We just want to get our cleavage out in the name of scaring people, but you’re hell bent on late fall. Every year I have to choose between freezing my tits off or going as Slutty Ernest Shackleton. Please rethink your time management.


Rock Hard Nips


Dear people who make swivel chairs,

Can you please make your swivel chairs a little less fun? I’m trying to do work and the novelty of swiveling is just too much to bear. Also, why the hoot aren’t swivel couches a thing? Diversify or perish.


Distracted and Dizzy


Dear wisdom teeth,

We all know you and the appendix are in cahoots to cause bodily mayhem. Why the human body comes equipped with a dental doomsday device, I know not. Also, what exactly is your purpose again? Either way, just fit yourselves into my skull or stop trying.




Dear Google AdChoice,

Okay, I know you only want what’s best for consumers, but you need to rethink your system. If I just bought a 50 dollar portable speaker, why would you assume that I am suddenly in the market for eight more? Please install a “show me fun new shit and not stuff I’ve already dropped dough on”  button. Thanks.


This Is A Legit Complaint


Dear CVS Self-Checkout Robot Voice,

You are so loud. Too loud. Please introduce yourself to the concept of “inside voice.” Believe it or not I don’t need everyone in the store to know my debit card balance can’t handle generic-brand frozen pizza. Control yourself or we’ll delete you.


Slightly Afraid of AI


Dear suede thigh-high boots,

Look, I know you’re a huge trend right now and I want you so bad. But seriously can you please a.) stop being so cute or b.) stop being so damn expensive? Also, I’m definitely suspicious of your definition of “thigh-high.” To be honest nobody trusts you.


Poor Girl With Short Legs


Dear wild rabbits in Wriston Quad,

This is a check-in. Are you alive? Are you cold? Please come back, it’s midterm season and we would all really love to see some bunnies right about now. I promise I won’t try to chase you anymore. Also, extra points if you could live up to your rep and pump out some babies for us too.


Stressed and Petless


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It's a Girl Thing, Life & Other Drugs, Satire

A Gynography of the Everygirl (If Every Girl is Just Like Me)

March 6, 2017

Hey public school younguns, remember that day in eighth grade health class when they rolled out the projector and sat us down and scarred us all for life? Remember how the boys joked like little assholes and some girls rolled their glitter-rimmed eyes and others just sat in petrified silence as six-foot depictions of diseased junk paraded Clockwork Orange style in front of our little, shiny, impressionable faces?

Well I missed out on most of that, as I was sprawled unconscious on the floor of the girls bathroom, having fainted dead away at the mere concept of internal birth control. For some reason, just the thought of a little copper wishbone thing wedged all up in my bits just cut out my cerebral lights and left me sick and helpless until the scream of a custodian aroused me from the daze. Don’t get me wrong, I eventually did get my state-mandated fill of sexual fear just like all the other droogs, choking back down my pb&j on wheat and swearing off dick for the rest of my life.

I grew out of that fear in a proper fashion, familiarizing myself with the lower halves of boys, as well as those fun little rubber bags that keep your life from spiraling into disarray.

By the time I turned eighteen-and-a-half I was pretty damn content with the safeness of my fuckery, with only a scare or two under my belt and no worldly intentions of including additional hormones / evil T-shaped uterine invaders in my boudoir.

Fast forward to present day, and I’m sitting in the gyno like a real lady, the letters “IUD” circling like buzzards in my head. In the name of cool-slimy-middle-school-bathroom-tile-pressed-against-one’s-face, why am I here, sweating cannonballs, wrapped in a sterile tablecloth, feet propped up in stirrups (who’s riding who though??), toes making little toe-fists as a stranger with a degree peers contently into my depths with the intention of making me a home to the sort of inhabitant that does not end up, in fact, a child??

The answer is a series of events having to do with the male species, believe it or not. One “event” being a six-foot-tall cool drink of sweet tea in the shape of a boyfriend, and the other a different sort of hormonal invader, that against all odds wormed his way to a political position from which he could legally but ham-handedly dictate the fate of every uterus in the country. All in all, I’d so nobly taken it upon myself to finally face my fear of IUDS in the name of feminism and baby-free boning. Hallelujah, right? right??

The pussy doctor was a kind older lady with a pretty green sweater who assured my shaking ass, “It’s not nearly as big as a penis, but definitely not as fun,” as she tore the commercial packaging off my new wombmate, a little wiry T by the name of “Kyleena.” (Also, why the actual hell do they name all birth control shit like “Lyla” or “Emmestra” and weird yuppie sounding names that sound exactly like what you’d name the poor hypothetical kid you don’t want? Just cruel). She came at me brandishing it like a bayonet bound for my bits, saying “just relax, honey,” and I replied with a weak “okay” as the room fogged at the edges, and my pelvic floor clenched up like a steel bear trap.

I won’t sugar-coat it. I shamelessly identify as a world-class weenie when it comes to pain and general uncomfiness and I squeezed the poor nurses hands purple at just the touch of the cool metal speculum. When the moment of truth arrived I swiftly departed from my consciousness, and somewhere deep in my dizzy delirium I found myself 13 and faint with the cold tile of a smelly middle school bathroom pressed against my cheek, and the dirty, desperate thought escaped my lips, “I just wish I liked girls!” Back in distant reality, I heard the eternal tongue-clucking of all the women of the world echoing off the sterile walls.

All encompassed, I emerged from that clinic a whole new girl: sweaty, minutely heavier, and blessed with feminine strength and resilience, bound for 5 beautiful years of worry-free whoopie, bleeding in the back of an uber (how many people have bled in here??) I felt the small smiles of every independent lady that has ever stuck it to the man glued to me like the truest Brownie badges. And I smiled too.

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