Satire: Who would win? Round four.
Editor's note: This article is satire.
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Editor's note: This article is satire.
I recently had a conversation with a friend where she aired out her grievances against her boyfriend about a fight they had had the week before. I listened intently as she went into detail about all of the reasons she was mad at him, and have compiled them here.
Content warning: This column contains mention of suicide and violence.
Have you ever been really sad? Like super super sad for a long time. Well, that might be depression. Or it might be a vitamin deficiency. Like a psychiatrist, let's just assume it's depression for simplicity's sake.
A week ago I went to my first basketball game at UNC (we lost to Clemson). My appearance at the game followed a two-year-long period in which I claimed to not care at all about UNC sports, or any UNC-affiliated events in general.
My greatest fear is that I’ll never escape Taylor Swift discourse.
With the Grammy's rapidly approaching and nominations for coveted awards like Album of the Year officially out, here are my predictions for everyone's favorite winter award show:
I still remember the day that Joe Biden was declared president-elect in 2020. I was in my room checking the election results for the 40th time that day, reloading my Safari page every second, when I saw a headline projecting his victory. I was ecstatic. I was only a senior in high school at the time, but I felt a sense of massive relief; the big, bad Donald Trump was done. Gone for good, or so I thought.
I found out that Lee Roberts was being knighted as UNC's interim chancellor on my recent 38-hour plane ride to New York, where I was stuck next to a 32-year-old Harry Potter fan and her six newly adopted kids (all from different continents, except Antarctica — they don't have kids there.) Upon reflection of this experience, I somehow found myself more devastated by Roberts' appointment than my unfortunate seating arrangement — even after the kid from Australia ate my AirPods.
My junior year of high school, my AP English teacher forced my class to read "A Modest Proposal" —a 1729 essay written by Jonathan Swift in which he proposes that Irish families sell their children as food to the rich and elite.
Last semester, after a particularly rough final exam, I stormed out of Phillips Hall and took off to Franklin Street in need of a snack. I purchased a family-sized bag of Cape Cod potato chips and perched myself on a bench to sit and indulge.
Editor's note: This article is satire.
On Oct. 13, Chancellor Kevin Guskiewicz released a statement following the Hamas attack on Israel condemning the act of violence and this “horrifying” act of terror. It came at a time of contentious debate over Israel and Palestine’s place in the Middle East and the two countries' geopolitical relationship. Regardless, Guskiewicz understood then that the killing of innocent civilians was an act of terror.
Editor's note: This article is satire.
My OCD tells me to lick my lips in a circle, three times in a row. These circles must be exactly the same, perfectly tracing over the previous circle. I think about how ridiculous that would look and quickly make a mental objection. No, I won’t do that.
Editor's note: This article is satire.
Last week, I was catching up with my older brother when he casually mentioned that South Carolina lowered the drinking age within the state from 21 to 18. Intrigued, I did a quick Google search and was immediately met with a fact-checking site that confirmed this was false. When I asked my brother where he had heard this from, he responded with a simple “I saw it on TikTok.”
I’m sure you’ve seen him wandering around campus. I’m sure there’s one in your gen-ed philosophy class who can’t quite seem to stop quoting his favorite philosopher. Sure, he’s only read a few excerpts from Nietzsche, but he understands it better than you. He gets it on a deeper level.
Last year, in the midst of a particularly rough mental health episode, I visited Counseling and Psychological Services at UNC for the first time. After two hours in the waiting room, I met with a counselor who, after only 30 minutes, recommended I see a psychiatrist.
A fear of rejection has hindered my life in almost every aspect. When the Starbucks barista hands me an incorrect drink, I gratefully accept whatever vile concoction they’ve mistakenly made and go about my day. When I meet a cute guy on a night out I tremble at the thought of making an advance and waste the opportunity. This anxiety exists because of my fear of a simple “no."