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(09/07/21 11:00am)
The only lesson I remember from any of my communications classes is the one about parasocial relationships. An academic term, it really boils down to one thing: being a stan. Parasocial relationships are one sided, intense affairs, where you love a character or celebrity so much you project onto it. Two parts escapism and one part obsession, parasocial entanglements feel normal, mostly because they are—to an extent. Everyone loves something a little too much.
(08/31/21 11:00am)
I learned what moldavite was exactly one week before I took a sledgehammer to my pandemic–proofed life. I ended a circumstantial friendship, went back to therapy, and broke up with the first man I ever felt comfortable enough with to write about. At the time, none of it felt intentional, and, honestly, most of it felt very self–destructive. But that’s the thing about breaking routines, especially unhealthy ones. Until you form better habits, all you feel is the pang of lack.
(05/12/21 9:43pm)
Street doesn’t usually include a letter from the editor in its annual Penn 10 issue. After all, the accomplishments of our featured stand–out seniors tend to speak for themselves.
(04/29/21 8:48pm)
To quote a little Big Time Rush, “We’re halfway there,” and despite most of these letters ending up as diatribes on my anxiety and loneliness, I’m going to do something different. To mark the first finish line of my term as editor–in–chief, I am going to end with optimism.
(04/21/21 2:42pm)
As the academic year winds down and we cram our heads with new theorems and theories, the most important lesson I’ve learned is a simple one: It is okay to quit things.
(04/08/21 8:17pm)
"Acceptance" is a funny word. I’ve been thinking a lot about it as quarantine inevitably forced the introspection I used to reserve for quiet, empty Sunday mornings into an everyday occurrence. What will I accept from myself? What will I accept from others? And why do those two end up feeling drastically different?
(04/01/21 12:00pm)
When I was younger, comfort looked a lot like solitude, and more acutely, avoidance. I’d burrow myself in the corner of the big blue chair in the living room and read chick lit for hours on end, the acoustic guitar of Ingrid Michaelson’s Pandora station insulating me from the words I didn’t want to hear: that my father was cheating again, my mom lacked the means to leave him, and that everything would be easier if I was just somehow a little bit less. If I couldn’t hear the conflict, it didn’t exist, and I could deal with it later or not at all, depending on if I wanted to finish my book.
(03/25/21 3:03pm)
From start to finish, the process of putting together this edition of Street’s beloved Dining Guide has been guided by one fundamental question: What has food meant to us in the past year?
(03/18/21 4:00am)
March 11 washed over me like any other day. I did my silly little tasks: clock in at my internship and procrastinate any real writing, attend about four hours of Zoom meetings, go to the gym and cry about hating my body, and come home and cry about hating the things that comprise the pandemic–proofed version of my life. An endless stream of deadlines. Financial insecurity. Social isolation. The end of choice.
(03/04/21 1:00pm)
Growing up is a slow burn, even though we don’t always realize this in the moment. The trope stares us in the face so regularly we never think to interrogate it.
(02/25/21 1:00pm)
“We’re never done with killing time,” sings Lorde on “400 Lux,” a casually evocative pop ditty about a couple savoring a pretty silence. I’ve been replaying this lyric a lot in the first month of my 20th year, but definitely not as the song intended me to.
(02/18/21 5:00am)
I hadn’t thought about Taylor Swift’s Fearless since the fall of my first year at Penn when I had a crush on a boy who shared the name—but not the spelling—of track four. I’d play it as I was doing my calculus homework in the Van Pelt reading room or as I was folding laundry in my shoebox dorm room. Then he didn’t reciprocate in the way I wanted, and I graduated onto the rest of the Swiftian canon where she sang about things far more relatable to my liminal college experience, like falling in love with new cities and eventually with someone who ends up becoming your best friend.
(02/11/21 12:13am)
In the era of COVID–19, love is complicated.
(02/04/21 1:00pm)
Buzzwords are sweet nothings.
(01/28/21 12:00pm)
Sometimes the internet feels so vast I’m afraid it could swallow me whole.
(01/21/21 2:08pm)
When I was younger, I read every issue of Seventeen magazine exactly three times: the first with my mom, where we’d flip through the fashion sections and dissect every shoe choice and pattern on the page. The second by myself, where I’d devour every word, storing knowledge of toxic shock syndrome and turns of phrase for times when they’d matter. The third was with my father, where we’d reenact the interviews. He’d always play the celebrity and I’d always be the journalist.
(12/09/20 3:00pm)
Dear Bea, Chelsey, Mehek, and Karin:
(12/01/20 4:47pm)
Yes, you might remember 34th Street as the DP’s cooler and sexier older sister. We like that title, but we’ve also grown up a bit since the last time you picked up a copy inside or outside of the DP, or snatched the latest issue from a staffer on Locust Walk.
(11/15/20 5:06am)
I spent Saturday morning hungover and failing at getting work done. I involuntarily woke up at seven and couldn’t get back to sleep after a late night of festivities with my roommates. We took shots, danced, and talked—all in hopes of dulling the anxieties we all felt about the soon–to–be–announced outcome of the election.
(09/19/20 11:08pm)
Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away on Friday, following complications of pancreatic cancer. My mother called me to tell me. I don’t remember what she said, because she opened with, first, Justice Ginsburg’s name, and then my brain turned to static, and I don’t remember the rest of the phone call. It was short.