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(02/10/11 9:28am)
The stretch of Spruce from 40th to 41st Street is a black hole. I've walked down this block at least once a day over the past year and a half and I’ve learned a thing or two. In the time it takes to walk the block you can do the following activities effortlessly:
(02/03/11 7:17am)
Last Wednesday night, we all prayed for a snow day. Whenever shrieks were heard over intercoms and through hallways, someone would jump and dial 898–MELT. But nothing felt worse than hearing the words, “The University is open and operating on a normal schedule." Sadly, no snow day. Dreams of four–day weekends were dashed. In the dead of a snowy morning (7 a.m. to be exact) I left a certain windowless building just in time to see a delivery truck drop off 400 freshly printed papers. Now that’s excitement.
(01/27/11 7:57am)
There’s that scene in (admittedly, my favorite movie) Can’t Hardly Wait when a few tech geeks surround a computer and wait desperately for Internet porn to load. The teenagers salivate at the image of an almost–tit when suddenly the hard drive crashes. Noooooo! They push up their glasses, sigh and press refresh — they’ll see boob in another half an hour… maybe.
(01/20/11 5:34am)
I’m a sentimental, sappy, bear your soul in an '80s love song kind of girl. I hate to admit it and despite donning a coffee–drinking sarcastic shell, I’m really just made up of unicorns, hearts and bubble letters.
That being said, one might easily anticipate my reaction to the abroaders’ epic homecoming. With the ring of a doorbell, tears were shed. Bear hugs commenced. Heart–to–hearts about foreign love affairs occupied my post–2 a.m. time slots.
But soon it dawned on all of us that as second semester juniors, we begin to enter that weird time warp where everything goes too quickly yet never quickly enough. We’re faced with the sappiest sap of all: the idea of saying goodbye. Seniors enter that awkward senioritis phase while we, the youngins’, look on forlornly and tremble at the idea of stepping into the scary shoes at the top. Weren’t we freshmen livin’ it up at NSO just yesterday?
While I wallowed in this self–pity for a few days, a good friend, ever the optimist, shared with me the obvious, “No one’s going anywhere just yet.” With that swirling in my head, I made a conscious decision. For now, we can all sit back, relax and let the good times roll, as they say. Kweder will still play on Tuesdays at Smokes.’ Tabard pledges will still don water bottle headgear and, of course, Street will still print on Thursdays.
With a new year upon us, we bring you the same familiar Street with a few new badges of flair. Even if your new year's resolutions have already worn away (p. 15), maybe you’ll find yourself covering up your Brussels sprout–induced farts (p. 10). Either way, I’m putting my dread of May days on hold and will be hiding in a (slightly embarrassing) world filled with kittens and Lisa Frank folders.
(12/02/10 9:05am)
Disclaimer: This letter, this one right here, has been particularly difficult to write. In fact, even amidst all the term papers and stupid class blog posts and application essays, I've never dreaded writing something more.
(11/18/10 8:20am)
In a city where the cloud cover is often low and diffuse, yesterday’s sky of lofty, slow–moving and almost–purple clouds was a welcome change. Walking down 40th Street, my eye was drawn up and away from the trolley tracks, food carts and general business of campus and my mind lost in the sheer vastness of the sky.
(11/11/10 8:19am)
I feel drugged. Really, on a cloud, different–than–drunk, numb–to–the–world, drugged. And, as someone who (believe it or not) hasn't ever touched a drug beyond the Benadryl and Epinephrin required by a severe allergy to peanuts, I have to say — it's quite a fascinating state of being.
(11/04/10 7:54am)
I was innocently sitting in my bed, procrastinating by reading an article on New York Magazine's Vulture about the female characters in Boardwalk Empire (I haven't managed to get through a single episode on On Demand yet). "…when women were more likely to be thought of as sex objects or mothers than equals…" Click. Click. Click. I knew it immediately. It was the sound that all of the Apple support blogs call "the click of death." The click that means complete hard drive failure. For the second time in less than a year, my computer's hard drive had tragically and suddenly died.
(11/03/10 2:50am)
Ohhh, Wawa Coke ICEE.
(10/28/10 6:42am)
At around 5 a.m. on a particularly late night in architecture studio this past week, I deliriously announced to a room of several other archi–geeks, “I think it’s better in life to be silly and happy when on the brink of exhaustion than to be sad and cranky.” One responded, not so jokingly, “It’s only when you get silly and happy that we get cranky.”
(10/21/10 7:14am)
Dear Penn: you are a bunch of very forward–happy people.
(10/14/10 7:47am)
Back in the days of AIM, my friend and I had a code. If I ever IMed him something sarcastic, I would alternate the case of the letters so as to make my tone absolutely clear; ‘I absolutely can’t wait for practice’ became ‘I aBSOlutELY cAN’t WAit fOR prACTicE.’
(09/30/10 8:40am)
As a GRITS (that's Girl Raised In The South, obviously), sometimes it's hard living up here in cloudy, cold Philadelphia. Philadelphians are not usually mean, but they are certainly loud and blunt. It is indeed not always sunny; but — with the exception of summer months — nearly always windy and misty. Not every restaurant serves Southern or Southern-fusion something (fried chicken tacos, Thai shrimp and grits etc.), a fact especially noticeable since Chick-fil-A fled campus. Sure, life moves faster and people use public transportation, but the vast difference between Yankee Doodle Philadelphia and Sweet Home Atlanta has never been so apparent as the day last week I wore my Braves t-shirt to Citizens Bank Park.
(09/23/10 10:31am)
You'd think. As a College student who splits her time between the architecture studio and the office of the arts and culture weekly you’re currently holding, you’d think I’d be able to avoid all of this OCR hullabaloo.
(09/16/10 9:08am)
Transfer kids are everywhere. You know, those kids that join us from other institutions sophomore or junior year and complain every time you make too many references to the quad or freshman year NSO? Everywhere. On campus. Off campus. Greek. Unaffiliated. In SO MANY of my classes. Even my travel buddy this summer transferred here after a year at GW.
(04/22/10 7:44am)
I’ve spent the vast majority of this semester’s “From the Editor” letters complaining about how fast time moves. From time sucks and weekends to snowdays and Hulu, if you’ve ever glanced down at this gray box before you’d be well aware that if I had my druthers, time would move at half speed.
(04/15/10 6:53am)
I have recently decided that the trials and tribulations of college can be boiled down to one question: to go out, or to do work?
(04/08/10 7:26am)
Here at the Street office, we have something called the time suck. It’s from 10 p. m. to 2 a.m., and within it, time simply disappears. Here’s how it works: you notice the time around 9:45 p.m. You’ll chance another glance at the clock and it’s 9:47 p.m. And again at 9:50 p.m. And then BAM! It’s 2 a.m., our press deadline has come and gone and save DP Dough, nothing is open on Campus Food.
(04/01/10 8:09am)
This is just a weird week. Jews went home for a while, and now aren’t eating yeasty things. KFP is an acronym recently incorporated into my vocabulary. Christians are in the home stretch of Lenten suffering, looking forward to their own break fast of Peeps, Cadbury and ham.
(03/25/10 8:40am)
All of us have a means of escape. A way to leave this crazy Penn world, all the drama drama, drama and the work and the pressure. For me, it’s online television. Just me, my bed and my Hulu queue. Late night Mondays are for my ABC Family shows — they go online at 4 a.m. — Wednesday afternoons are Gossip Girl (after reading Daily Intel’s round up, try it) and Friday evenings are for Modern Family, the Office and as much Grey’s as I can stomach before switching to House.