Review: Three Sirens Boutique
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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.
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.
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.
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.
Ohhh, Wawa Coke ICEE.
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.”
Dear Penn: you are a bunch of very forward–happy people.
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.’
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
The smell that hits you upon entering Kitchen Kapers, located just south of Walnut on 17th Street, is distinct if at first a tad confusing. Follow your nose through the two-story maze of cookware, appliances, cookbooks and ingredients and you’ll inevitably find yourself at an island of coffee. Open burlap bags filled with Three Brothers 100% Arabica Coffee Beans (including the fragrant culprit — White Chocolate flavored) encircle a counter sporting two industrial coffee grinders and a series of coffee-producing appliances, all for testing.
You can tell a storm is coming when cows huddle up together. The faster a cricket chirps, the hotter the day will be. The louder you can hear the train whistle in the distance, the better the weather. Or so my grandmother, and the worn pages of her Farmer's Almanac, insists.
Ah, the mid-semester crunch: the week or so before Spring Break when professors refuse to acknowledge the demands of other classes, TAs are overwhelmed to the point of becoming useless and Penn students become notably hermitic.
Most of my friends don’t know where the Charles Addams Fine Arts Hall is.
I have never seen so much snow fall in an urban setting in my entire life. Not even close. Sure, I had snow days in high school — but in Atlanta, snow days mean a half-inch of winter white and a city of Southerners scared to drive while it’s flurrying. For me, snow has always been a quickly melting novelty; I was utterly shocked and delighted when my snow boots were still necessary to trek to class on Monday.
I'm all for supporting good causes, but there is little that gets under my skin quite like those pesky volunteers that stand on corners around campus soliciting money for various charities. Whether it’s dying polar bears or women's rights, most are obnoxious and all are extremely hard to avoid.
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