You know you’re a senior when the Student Union “Reservation Training” quiz is the hardest assessment of this semester thus far.
As a 3L, second semester, law student, my feelings about class: I’m here so I won’t get fined.
SBP campaigns: Trying to outwhite the Daily Tar Heel since 1893.
To the person sprawled out on a couch in a crowded Union: Can I get you anything? A pillow? Some popcorn? A course on common courtesy?
I didn’t win the basketball lottery or get that job. And only one was nice enough to send me a rejection email.
To the girl walking out of the Genome Science Building in shorts — why hasn’t natural selection gotten to you yet?
To the girl who decided it was a good idea to print 120 pages at the UL between a class change — WHY?
The joy of having a small discussion-based class turns into sheer terror when you realize there is a hole in the crotch of your jeans.
I’m sure jmpender is interesting, but she’s probably too busy hanging out with karent to meet you.
It’s my last semester at UNC and my classes couldn’t feel more irrelevant. Except statistics. We spent an hour calculating the mean weight of a Chipotle burrito and that is something I can care about.
Thong + mismatched socks = time to do laundry.
SBP election time is here. ‘Tis the season for over-the-ear-headphones and answering nonexistent phone calls and texts in the pit.
It might not have been an English class, but I still appreciate the irony of my computer breaking down in COMP 110.
A Taylor Swift ode to my post-grad future: Blank Space.
Note to professor who said: “I probably have hepatomegaly, although you can’t tell just by looking at me.” You might want to keep that to yourself.
SBP election diversity report 2015: white, white, white, white woman.
Send your one-to-two ?sentence entries to ?firstname.lastname@example.org, subject line ‘kvetch.’