Election Reflection: Mikaela Gilbert-Lurie C'17
On election night, I watched America have a collective panic attack.
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On election night, I watched America have a collective panic attack.
Bishop White, a stuffy little room on the second floor of Houston Hall with portraits of old white dudes in spectacles on the walls, is an unlikely place to hang out with three of the funniest people I’ve ever met. But nonetheless, here I am, sitting across from Akiva Schaffer, Jorma Taccone and Andy Samberg, who collectively make up the comedy/ fake rapping trio “The Lonely Island.”
It makes focusing on tedious assignments much less painful. It allows you to easily pull all–nighters. It lets you party longer and harder. It means you can drink more and black out less. It suppresses your appetite to keep you skinny. And it can be yours for only $12 a pill.
Spread the love, kids.
An Open Letter to Sad Freshmen Girls:
Name: The Shakespeare Portrait Wall in Fisher–Bennett
This summer I was a middle aged rabbit going through a messy divorce. I was a grandmother with a penchant for S&M, and a bank robber who could communicate only in song. Oh, and I made an appearance as Satan's bridesmaid (not the maid of honor, though, which was a huge point of conflict).
It was a freshman girl’s nightmare. I was at my first college party and had managed to lose everyone I came with. I didn’t know the name of the frat or how to get home. My phone was dead, my future roommate hadn’t gotten to school yet, and I didn’t know what to do. Maybe it’s because I’d gone to an all–girls high school and was naive. Or maybe it’s because I have two big brothers and have always felt safe around older boys, but instinct told me to ask one of the fraternity brothers to walk me home. He told me I could sleep in his bed instead. I laughed. He didn’t. He made me an offer: he would walk me home, but I had to blow him first. For the record, I didn’t do it.
It is very tempting to call this my Hippot Review Review but I’ll refrain. “Hippot” should’ve tipped me off to this being a hot pot restaurant, but unfortunately I went to Chinatown completely ignorant of what I was jumping into.
There’s a time and a place for sexy. Your little cousin’s bat mitvah isn't it. Your 9am recitation isn't it. Your TA’s office hours might be it. A date night where your ex–boyfriend is going with some fucking freshman is definitely it. So, how do you pull off looking effortlessly sexy?
The groutfit comes in all shapes and sizes. Sure, there’s the groutfit you wear in line at Bui’s on Sunday morning as your hangover pounds mercilessly in your skull and you contemplate your life choices. But guess what: There’s also a chic way to rock a groutfit.
In the words of the illustrious Sir Mix-a-Lot, “my anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hon.” I don’t have an anaconda, or a penis, but I do have a strong affinity for buns.
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