This is my last editor’s letter. Ever. Even though Street is printing next week, by then the new board will have taken over and I will be completely washed up.
Last week I attended my first preceptorial ever. It’s not that I hadn’t wanted to go to one before this semester, but rather I was systematically shut out of every cheese-tasting, Barnes Foundation-going, ceramics-learning preceptorial imaginable for the past six semesters.
Thanks to three consecutive midterms, I ended up spending Fall Break in Philly. I don’t even know if it could be called a break (how Penn thinks that canceling Monday’s classes constitutes a vacation is beyond me), but it did allow for some quality time with my equally midterm-challenged roommates.
I went to my first Penn party the January of my senior of high school. Fresh off the high of my early admittance, I visited a friend from home who was a freshman living in the Quad, and took in all of Penn’s earthly delights.
As humans, we are all driven by fear: fear of loss, fear of failure, fear of insignificance. But we college students (or, at least, we Penn students) are driven by another type of fear: the fear of missing out.
Let’s be real: freshmen are on the bottom of the food chain. Most arrive at Penn without any friends, some have to live sans AC in Hill and pretty much none can get into Smoke’s.
Twas the day before Fling, and up to campus’s edge,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a pledge.
The booze had been smuggled into the Quad with care,
In hopes the RAs wouldn’t know it was there.
The students in class wished they were in their beds,
With visions of fried Oreos dancing in their heads.
Tonight’s festivities would include a downtown jaunt,
Mashups and dancing at our fave nighttime haunts.
Papers and exams seemed so very far away,
Kegs and eggs is how kids would choose to start their day.
Friday would bring inflatables and the yummiest of food,
A cappella performances would help complement the mood.
Fling wouldn’t be complete without a funnel cake or two,
Not to mention a trip to the Zete petting zoo.
The DP’s Quad booth promised photos and more,
Oh, there’s such well-deserved fun in store!
The Green would be filled with lots of earthly delights,
(Study the back of our insert so you don’t miss the sights.)
When nighttime cometh, Akon would take the Fling stage,
With the Guster boys in tow (check out our first insert page).
But be wary, dear reader, of your Flungover state,
Make good choices, drink water, be smart and be safe.
And when Sunday comes, there is one thing you must do:
Submit lots of Shoutouts, we want to hear from you!
Stage Five Flinger,
Julia
We love lists. We love making them, reading them, crossing things off of them. Each issue of Street starts with a story list and ends with a production checklist.
In an effort to make flying a little more pleasant this spring break, I decide to pack light. I threw a few sweaters, some jeans and a couple pairs of sneakers in a bag and headed to good ol’ PHL International.
My friend Kara’s favorite game is to ask new acquaintances to describe in explicit detail what they would eat (every meal and in-between snacks!) if this was their last day on Earth.
I am a nomad. I have lived four different places in my not-quite-three years at Penn, not to mention the two summers I’ve spent in New York City dorms.
When I was the Ego editor way back in the fall of 2007, my co-editor Chloé and I came up with a slew of questions that we routinely asked our Egos of the Week.
With everything awash in red and pink during this most hallowed/dreaded of Valentine’s weeks, my thoughts turn to soulmates of the fictional variety, those people you just know you’re meant to be with… if only they were, you know, real.