Let’s recall the Burn Book from “Mean Girls.” Damian was too gay to function. Dawn was a fat virgin, and Amber made out with a hot dog.
Whenever we begin wondering why we’re in college or get stuck in one of those all too familiar “What am I doing with my life” conundrums, we try to focus on the payoff.
Knock, knock. “Would you like to donate $150 and stand on your feet for 24 hours straight?” asked the bright-eyed philanthropic duo who showed up at my door a few months ago.
Sometimes I have a very Southern accent. Other times, it’s practically undetectable. And really it just depends on where I am and who I’m talking to. But it doesn’t stop at minor alterations in dialect, and it’s not only me. We all change various things about ourselves to adapt to a slew of very different social contexts.
For a lot of us, the start of a new semester brings countless applications for various merit organizations and internships.
It happened again. It came and it went. As expected, “the most wonderful time of the year” left untold millions of dollars in credit card debt and thousands of pounds in guilty, sugared pleasures. It left trees, stripped of elaborate decor, at our curbsides awaiting pickup. It left Snooki having to change her plans for New Years Eve when New Yorkers firmly refused her request to ride the ball down in Times Square.
Thomas Wolfe said it best: “You can’t go home again.” We all tried over Thanksgiving break. We made our strongest efforts to integrate ourselves back into our hometowns, our old friend groups and our families. Between bites of turkey, we attempted to remember how we used to do it — to remember where we fit into it all. Audience by audience, we noticed that things simply weren’t as we left them.
Last week’s registration brought back painful memories of CTOPS. Luckily, we have developed quite a bit since that awkward two-day period. We are no longer walking around with those tacky lanyards on our necks. We’ve put down the campus maps and we’ve found better places to keep our keys.
A line of heavily armed men on motorcycles simultaneously rev up their engines preparing to push civilians out of their way. The intimidation factor is heightened by their impenetrable helmets and black uniforms. Behind this tightly packed line of motorcycles marches armed men followed by a huge empty bus, a fleet of patrol cars, and several enormous public works vehicles.
Someone yells “Passin’ on your right.” I hear this harried phrase accompanied by a jaunty bell ringing. If I don’t move quickly enough, then I face being plowed over by the oncoming biker. Even if I somehow manage to survive, I’ll still be the victim of a look of disgust.