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(04/24/24 6:10am)
Do you believe in true love? Do you know what you mean by that? I’ve come to believe that hopeless romantics actually fall into two camps: circumstantialists and anti–circumstantialists. For a circumstantialist, a big enough obstacle is a sign something is not meant to be. Meanwhile, an anti–circumstantialist is the “love will prevail” type, the one who believes there is no “wrong time” for the right person.
(04/10/24 6:02am)
Some people keep diaries; I keep sketchbooks. On days when I’m home from school and nostalgia has dug its Crayola–stained fingers into my thoughts, I pull them from the shelf and begin a trip through time.
(04/19/24 4:00am)
When I was three, I watched a video of my uncle performing violin in Taiwan. I decided then and there that, someday, I would play on that stage too.
(02/21/24 5:00am)
Châtelet–Les Halles (1e)
(03/20/24 1:03am)
Texting seventeen people on Tinder, and going to strange rooms houses apartments might not be the best move. Last week, I sat on my friend’s carpet, and she asked me to hand her the applesauce sitting on her minifridge. I passed it to her, and she took the spoon out, holding it aloft as she gulped straight from the jar. Still kneeling on the floor, I let my head sink into the dark pile of blankets at the foot of her bed. Her fingers landed in my hair, massaging my scalp. I looked up after a few minutes. Her tight red coils were recently dyed and washed. The post–breakup cartilage piercing she had gotten two days ago glinted gold.
(02/28/24 3:19am)
The year is 2024. It’s snowing outside, and my carefully curated anthology of media about doomed romance tagged ‘#webweaving’ has just hit 2,000 notes on Tumblr. I’m on my second rewatch of Fleabag, and Andrew Scott is telling Phoebe Waller–Bridge to kneel. I know how this story ends. PWB kneels, and I watch on anyway.
(01/05/24 3:09am)
Sometimes, while I’m cleaning my desk and organizing the piles of unfolded clothes that litter my rug, I like to plop myself down in the center of my college bedroom and just think. That’s where I found myself today, surrounded by a mess of pillows and rejected outfits, sitting on the cold linoleum floor of my apartment. An old Joan Sebastian song plays quietly from my phone, a vent in the far corner hums with the sound of the heater, and I breathe.
(12/10/23 5:00pm)
The first time I met Katie I was livid. Seventh grade, my mom decided that we needed a guard dog after our house was burglarized. I knew this was a terrible idea. But nonetheless, I came home one day to find a two–year–old rescue pitbull, tail wagging and tongue out in the closest thing to a canine grin.
(11/01/23 5:45pm)
I don’t really get homesick. Plenty of my friends count down the days until they get to take the next flight or train home. But as I sit on my dorm bed 2,704 miles away from “home,” I’m a little scared to admit to myself that I feel almost fine.
(10/02/23 4:00am)
It’s a summer night—warm and hazy, late August, cocktail of nostalgia, tranquility, and tipsy glee floating in on the breeze. Nobody quite feels like going home yet, so you and your friends seek out an after–dinner treat. You’re approaching the corner of 7th and Christian streets when you first catch sight of that familiar beacon of bright red, white, and green, jutting proudly into the pink sunset. You begin to salivate. You can practically taste the sweet, sultry mango flavor on your tongue, cold and crystalline and more refreshing than it has any right to be. It’s the taste of summer. It’s exactly what you need.
(09/08/23 10:00am)
I was walking through pouring rain when Bean called to see if I wanted to work with him this summer. I had promised my mom that I would come home, a prospect I wasn’t entirely excited about—it would mean reinstated curfews and the self–imposed house arrest of the 110 degree Texas heat. Bean had been a mentor for me throughout high school, and when he first offered me the job, I was tentative. In many ways it felt like a step backwards: I’d be working with a local nonprofit to help coach a youth slam poetry team, a program I’d been a part of all throughout high school. When I went to college I wanted nothing more than to move forward, to leave behind everything I once was as a teenager in Sugar Land and re–emerge a metamorphosed girl. But here I was back again after my first year, in the same lifeless town, in the same small life.
(05/25/23 10:00pm)
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
(04/28/23 11:00am)
In January, my best friend called me and told me she was pregnant. She was also getting married in less than 48 hours.
(06/16/23 5:00am)
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
(04/18/23 6:13pm)
I jolt awake from my fitful, melatonin–induced nap. “¡Bienvenidos a Costa Rica!” blares the speaker in what is reminiscent of an Adam Sandler vacation movie. The book assigned as my spring reading, Ursula K. Le Guin’s anarchist science fiction Dispossessed, lays embarrassingly pristine on my lap, utterly untouched save for a marking on page five and a smear of thick five–a.m.–wake–up–call drool.
(04/12/23 1:00pm)
Content warning: The following text describes assault and can be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
(03/21/23 4:00pm)
I hate texting. Not in an exasperated “Technology will be our demise” and “This generation's going to shit” way, but as more of a slightly frustrated vent. Any form of communication that’s not face to face has its misunderstandings. How can you successfully relay to me your thoughts if I am not there to witness which way your eyebrows curve and the context in which your eyes shine, so I can tread anxiously in your pauses?
(03/30/23 3:30pm)
I had two names growing up: my American name and my Korean name. It seems complicated, but it isn't really.
(03/01/23 5:00am)
If you take everything else away, I would contend that my defining characteristic is my hair. As a kid, my nickname was broccoli, based solely on the fact my hair resembled a sprouting floret. Coming into the COVID–19 pandemic, I remember a teacher noting that while he struggled to recognize the rest of his students in their masks, he always knew I was approaching because of my signature mane. Everyone’s first compliment was of my curls and their last question was an inquiry into my hair routine—to which I always falsely answered, “I don’t even know,” as if I didn’t spend hours on Sunday pre–conditioning, co–washing, plumping, or whatever other tips I picked up from the endless curly hair influencers I followed.
(02/17/23 5:00am)
Of the 3,404 students admitted to Penn’s Class of 2024, 168 of them hailed from the city of Philadelphia. While it is highly unlikely that every Philadelphia admit accepted their offer of admission from Penn, it can be assumed that around 5% of the 2,400–person junior class possesses the unique perspective of attending college in the same city where they reside based on the number originally admitted. Statistically speaking, then, being included in this percentage is a rarity on this campus.