Image via Sarah Clapp.
Walk into any college classroom or study space and you will find students basking in the glow of their Macbooks like fat cats lying in the sun (Meow!)
Furthermore, you will most likely be barraged with visual punches to the eyeballs. The fists? Eye-catching and meticulously arranged stickers plastered on aforementioned gadgets. Continue Reading…
I don’t self-identify as a fan of Grey’s Anatomy, but, hey, I’m only human. We all have our faults. But lately, I have found myself living for the tension between two hot, fictional doctors (Christina Yang and Owen Hunt) because their lives are way steamier than the tea I make in my dorm room (update: while searching for an image of the two characters for this article, I spoiled their relationship for myself… I’m fine… they get married?!… I’m definitely not including a picture now). My life now consists of me convincing myself that if my episode of Grey’s runs a minute over the hour-mark on my clock, then I should just watch another one. Because hey, that next hour is basically wasted. Continue Reading…
It’s the first day of classes and you wake up from your three-hour slumber–hopefully a bit longer but probably not–ready to settle into your porcelain throne. The one moment of your day where you are truly alone with your thoughts, shielded from the harsh world by two plastic walls. This is it. You relieve yourself and prepare to go about your day, but not before flushing, of course. You can’t quite remember pushing down on the lever but suddenly your jeans are ruined with a smattering of toilet water. The sacred nature of the bathroom has been defiled. And to add insult to injury, this toilet has the nerve to require a second flush! Horrifying! Geez, say it don’t spray it! Continue Reading…
Image via Sarah Clapp.
It’s October. My room is getting cold, everybody seems to have someone to impose a couples costume onto, and I’m typing questions into Google such as: “How do I get a boy to like me?”
One particular evening last week, when I should have been reading about death rates of children on the frontier, I found myself down a rabbit hole of middle school dating forums. While I first read these articles in middle school, I am hoping they can still apply to my life as a twenty-year-old, living her sexy single life in the great city of Providence, Rhode Island.
Like most of us, I had to help around the house while I was growing up. These “chores” included walking the dog, taking out the trash, unloading the dishwasher, cleaning my room, and maybe, on rare occasion, cooking.
I thought these tasks were the bulk of what went into maintaining an adult existence, but it turns out I was very, very wrong. There is, in fact, a whole new plate of adult responsibilities I was not prepared for. Here are 8 allegedly easy things that we all hate more than we should:
It’s been 8 years since you poked your 8th grade crush and you’ve been waiting patiently for him to respond to your flirtation. Since he obviously just forgot, it’s time to remind him that you’re still the same cool, well-adjusted, not-at-all-overly-sweaty catch you were in middle school. Here are five things you can post on Facebook to get him to give you the poke/emotional affirmation you’ve been craving for nearly a decade!!! Continue Reading…
When it comes to my peers, I am always the one playing catch up. They’re more… how do I put this… developed. They own more than two bras and maybe have a cheese grater in their kitchen drawers. I wear the same bra every day and still live in a dorm room. There’s no competition. I just watch them from the sidelines, occasionally asking annoying questions about what womanhood is like, to which they reply: “One day, you’ll understand.”
It’s not like I haven’t been desperate to develop. I’ve always wanted to leave my girl-status behind and go all Shania Twain singing Man! I Feel Like a Woman. But the fact of the matter is that, for a long time, maturity hadn’t quite hit me. As much as I craved to learn the secret to being a badass lady-chick, I was just a late bloomer. I was trapped in the realm of the training bra. Pity me.
When I would admit my late blossoming to people, they would often gasp, saying things like, “Wow…I mean… getting ‘it’ at 20 years old is like really late, right?” I would nod my head and mumble “Uh huh,” as if I didn’t already know how stunted I was, as a woman. Even my mom was perplexed.
Then one day, it happened.
I was walking down Angell Street and I just knew, like a sixth sense: I told myself, this is your time—you’re a fucking woman now goddamn it. I exhaled sharply, turned left, and stared onwards into my future.
Yes, I am proud to announce that on September 27th the world of womanhood slapped me in the face and I got it: the drive to get an internship.