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(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.
(01/27/23 1:00pm)
“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love—I love—I love you.”
(02/03/23 5:00am)
Okay yeah sex is good but have you ever had the creamy crab and shrimp risotto from Quaker Kitchen after your first day of classes and followed it with the creamy tiramisu for dessert and your body literally shook—well, in the case of this strategically named dining hall, quaked—with pleasure?
(02/03/23 5:00am)
This is how this story starts: I’m sick to my stomach. I wasn’t at the time, but I am now thinking about it. I wonder sometimes if I was in love with her. Let’s establish some characters. Me: naive, your typical middle school loser, unknowingly in the closet. Her: we’ll call her Mary. Funny, sweet. Graceful, too.
(02/03/23 5:00am)
How I met them: at Wawa (agh), on Tinder, on Tinder again, six months later (aghhghh), through mutual friends, in class, in the 4th floor of DRL, the math lounge, of all places.
(12/19/22 5:00am)
Growing up, I mainly saw José Altuve through beloved grocery store H–E–B’s commercials. My exposure to baseball was limited to what I saw in passing while my mom or grandpa were watching the game. In the fall, I knew that every time I’d turn on the TV, I’d find a commercial featuring Altuve and Alex Bregman grilling burgers, eating snacks, and having a good time while representing every Texan’s favorite grocery store.
(11/30/22 11:54pm)
For the past 365 days, I've kept a photo diary on Instagram, documenting the minutiae of everyday life—the joyful moments and the challenging ones, too. One year has amounted to dozens of sweet, lighthearted photos with friends old and new, too many photos of food captured moments before ravenous consumption, at least half a dozen outfit–of–the–day videos, and the occasional selfie of me grinning and bearing the pain of academic dread.
(11/03/22 4:00am)
My parents told me they were getting a divorce on August 25, 2021. I was 17.
(11/04/22 1:00pm)
For years, I’ve had a weekly tradition of tuning in at 11:30 PM to watch Saturday Night Live as it airs. To me, SNL is the pinnacle of comedy, with hilarious sketches and insanely well–produced pre–tape videos, all created from scratch within a week.
(10/10/22 10:25pm)
The first time I cried at my job as a front–of–house hostess, I was already four months in.
(08/27/22 12:00pm)
Content warning: The following text describes emotional and physical assault and can be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
(08/26/22 12:00pm)
Content warning: This article contains references to anti–Asian racism and descriptions of graphic imagery, which may be disturbing and/or triggering to some readers.
(07/24/22 4:00am)
As a former Jenny Han addict, I knew I had to drop everything and watch The Summer I Turned Pretty the moment it dropped on Hulu. For the uninitiated, the book–adapted series follows the story of Isabella “Belly” Conklin, a 15–year–old whose family stays in a summer home at the Hamptons–esque Cousins Beach every year, courtesy of her mom’s well–off best friend Susannah and Susannah’s two teenage sons.
(07/07/22 7:41pm)
I’ve never been in a romantic relationship.
(07/08/22 4:00am)
Content warning: This article describes sexual assault, graphic depictions of abortion, and violence, which may be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers.
(06/23/22 4:00am)
Content warning: The following article includes mentions of suicide and eating disorders and can be disturbing or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
(06/14/22 4:02pm)
My mom recently reminded me of a call we had in the first weeks of my freshman year at Penn. She asked me if I felt comfortable at school. I responded, “Yes, but Penn is nothing like home.” My response suggests that I grew up in a sunny beach town or a quaint suburban neighborhood with pools in backyards and 50–person graduating classes. But surprisingly, the place I call home is a 20–minute walk from the Quad. I spent my first 18 years living in the same row home on the same pesky–to–drive–down narrow street, two blocks away from the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
(04/25/22 5:00pm)
Last semester I was scrolling through Instagram stories when, among the mind–numbing piles of reposts and sports updates, something caught me by surprise—something that triggered a very deep emotional reaction that I couldn't quite explain. Was it a flashy news headline filled with tragedy? A gut–wrenching story about love? A nihilistic look at the climate crisis?
(04/19/22 5:20pm)
It was 2008 and the day of the first–grade soccer tryouts for the local travel team. My mother, a Korean woman in her early 30s, watched apprehensively as a crowd of 7–year–olds stampeded after a rolling soccer ball, her daughter among them. She didn’t know if she wanted her to play soccer. Being a soccer mom was a big commitment. Hell, she hardly knew what a soccer mom was—she was new to the United States, and the culture surrounding youth soccer was a mystery to her.
(04/11/22 6:42pm)
Sundays, I’ve come to realize, are a polarizing day. Some might say it’s the scariest day of the week, when all the impending responsibilities you’ve spent the past 48 hours tastefully dodging to make room for the pursuit of the finer things in life come back like ghosts of weekdays past to haunt you. Especially here, on a college campus that's essentially a petri dish for the ubiquitous Sunday scaries, Sundays are regarded with a certain kind of wary disdain.