Being Google–able sucks. We crazy college kids can’t really do stupid stuff anymore. Well, that’s not true. We totally can but we just can’t brag about it in publications like these anymore. No longer can I fill this little space with illicit advice to freshpeeps (don’t drink the jungle juice). No longer can I brag about that totally crazy moment I had with Ken Kweder in the kitchen of Smoke’s last spring (it was magical). Now our names are all out there in that damn web–iverse and future employers are just waiting to call us out for our 2008 profile picture, where we’re pouring champagne on each other (Mom, I promise I never did this) and degrade the rants we wrote on our LiveJournals about emo bands on Long Island. Let this be a warning, dear readers: If you do something stupid online, we will find it. And we will write about it. Please visit Exhibit A: Freshman Superlatives. But let me backtrack. For those of you who haven’t seen 34th Street before, welcome. Officially we’re the weekly arts and culture magazine of the Daily Pennslyvanian, Penn’s independent newspaper. Unofficially, we Toast and Roast your frat parties, we break Penn down for you letter by letter and we play favorites. We’re the magazine you don’t want to tell your parents you write for. We use uber dashes and we REAL TALK. If you show up to our writers’ meetings every Thursday you’ll probably get a warm beer. Back to Freshman Superlatives. This, froshbabies, is your introduction to Penn. We love you. We hate you. We kind of want to be you (four more years, please!). So we present you with your Penn '15 minutes of (un–Google–able because there are no last names) fame until you become an Ego of the Week… if you're lucky.

Love in the tub,


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