I rarely got in trouble as a kid. Sure, I received the occasional detention for talking in class, but those ended shortly after I began copying lines from the blackboard.
What’s wrong with kids today? It’s a question that has followed us from our jelly shoe-clad childhoods, to our MTV/TRL/TGIF loving adolescence, to our Not-Penn-State and definitely Not-Berkeley-circa-1960 University of Pennsylvania.
I discovered at the tender age of five that I was in possession of a very vivid imagination. I never hung upside down on a jungle gym, but rather from a tight rope in the middle of a floating circus in the sky.
For students who develop a Big Three inferiority complex as soon as acceptance letters roll in, the desire to perpetuate a “Work hard, play harder” Social Ivy image seems contradictory.
As I write this, there are several other things I could, or rather should, be doing. I should, for example, be writing my 10-page paper (D-Day minus 2), doing my 200 pages of reading (D-Day minus 1) or studying for my midterm (D-Day minus 4). What I should not be doing is watching reruns of Full House or taking multiple naps.
Freshman year was a simpler time. Your room was the size of a closet, heat was free and, most importantly, Mom and Dad couldn’t yell at you to pick up your shit.
What makes us choose Chipotle over Qdoba? iPods over Zunes? Christianity over Judaism? Marketing. You can try to convince yourself of the benefits of one product over another, but rest assured that a well-crafted marketing campaign had a lot to do with your ultimate decision.
Weather.com informed me that last Friday afternoon would be “18 degrees, feels like 1.” So I bundled up in six layers and proceeded to class in College Hall, where I removed four of them in response to Facilities’ overzealousness with the classroom heaters.
A real live Ivy League-endorsed major sounded so glamorous.
I woke up with a rare jolt of energy a few Wednesday mornings ago and blow-dried my hair for the first time in a while.
Now that the presidential campaign — replete with spam, robocalls and SNL skits — has begun to recede into the background, two words come to mind: now what?
It’s been relatively easy to bash Whartonites and their ilk over the past several weeks. “Look at those fat cats on Wall Street, with their $60 million severance packages,” everyone from the crazy guy next to the Button to The New York Times has sniffed.
The other morning, when I woke up unsure of whether I was still drunk or just hungover, I found myself confronted by an important post-coital realization: I had screwed up (pun mildly intended). Before I go any further, understand that this is not that freshman-year-what-frat-house-am-I-in hungover regret.