Finding how to get to Mars
Last week, I went to the planetarium’s senior night, a very nostalgic, senior-y thing. It felt vast, scary, and as the screen rotated toward Mars, I was transported back to that little-girl place.
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Last week, I went to the planetarium’s senior night, a very nostalgic, senior-y thing. It felt vast, scary, and as the screen rotated toward Mars, I was transported back to that little-girl place.
It comes up, a punch line inevitable in conversations about things like school buses or lockers: I’m home schooled. No, I didn’t go to a normal school. Yes, ha ha, I did wear pajamas sometimes. Out of pity, my housemates recently threw a prom-themed party and rigged it so that I won prom queen. Yes, I was ecstatic.
The distance between my room and the classroom has, historically, been measured with swearing. I’m usually half-awake and late for class. It is not a pleasant time.
Among the thick rustle of silk and ego at the Oscars on Sunday, a question surfaced: why does everyone hate Anne Hathaway so much?
Sophomore year, my friend Noah introduced me to the term “unicorn.” It may not be the one in Webster’s dictionary, but, essentially, a unicorn is someone you see everywhere. But more than just a lot: They’re a motif that appears as a blur in every picture you have from college.
You are driving down the highway, late at night. The only thing working is the radio, and the station choices are both static and sparse: to discover a song you connect with is serendipity. But then, cheesy and rakish, it comes on: the perfect song.
“Can I have your number?” I’d just spent an hour talking with the guy about homework, but the question caught me off-guard.
“The only thing I care about more than feminism,” writes Caitlin Moran in an interview with Salon magazine, “is being funny.”
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I bring you Sufjan Stevens.
My complicated relationship with the word “literally” began earlier this year. Two of my best friends began a Twitter account called Literally a Handle, which retweets overheard misuses of the word (my personal favorite being “my personal trainer’s legs are literally tree trunks”).
This Friday, hometown hero David Sedaris is speaking in Durham.
A week into August, I knew something was different.
During my senior year of high school, I applied to nine schools, dreaming vaguely of cinematic ivy-clad private schools. But when I received the acceptance envelope from UNC, my heart knew where I belonged: the public university where quality and financial possibility are equally paramount.
Not long after I moved my laundry baskets into Parker Residence Hall, I had the strong compulsion to go.
From the time you wake up until you fall asleep, you will probably hear the question “How are you?” at least 15 times. I give this number with some confidence, because I counted yesterday.
April is National Poetry Month. But does poetry matter — or, more specifically, is it relevant to society?
When it comes to worshipping at the altar of UNC sports, I know my devotion doesn’t hold a candle to many of my classmates.
This time last year, a few of my best friends and I set off for a “Deep South Road Trip” with the idea that, in 10 days, we could pay some kind of homage to the mythologized landmarks we grew up hearing about. A compressed pilgrimage, if you will.
Amid floral bathing suits and the overpowering smell of chlorine, I learned this summer that when I took the kids I babysit to the pool, there were guaranteed to be at least four moms spellbound, reading Kathryn Stockett’s 2009 novel “The Help.”
If you have walked past the Center for Dramatic Art, you’ve walked past the Paul Green Theatre. The theater pays homage to Paul Green, a UNC professor of dramatic arts until 1981 and one of the South’s most celebrated poets and playwrights.