Dear Penn A Cappella Groups,
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Rebecca Stein, and my son Jacob is currently a freshman in the Wharton School of Business.
Ah, that first taste of warm, flat Beast. Like the smells of a cookout on Memorial Day, that first turning leaf or the first snowfall, it's the herald of a new season.
Before you tear up this letter, please hear me out. If you give me a half chance to explain you'll see that this is just one big misunderstanding.
Here's what happened.
I wanted to be Hulk Hogan. It's true. Every Saturday morning, I would get up at the crack of dawn, grab my box of Kix and plop my seven-year old posterior into the living room chair and watch nothing but cartoons.
People who work for Street have a reputation for being too cool for school. We're typecast, really, as people who will listen only to the indiest of indie rock and read every new Dave Eggers book.
For the most part, that's not true, or at least not for me.
I'm just going to come right out and say it: I've had enough. I don't want any more. I've had enough Greek Lady and Hemo's, because every time I eat something there, I feel like I am going to boot it back up.
Nothing stays; everything will change. And I really miss my toilet.
I wanted to dislike college. I spent so much energy trying to escape all of you in my own private hideaway.
My parents have failed me.
Sure, they spoiled me in all of the usual ways; school lunches from Le Bernadin, yachts, cocaine binges on Friday nights when we were bored, an endless stream of ponies boarded at Claremont until I graduated to thoroughbreds.
Penn has taught me a lot about being rejected. First, though, we need a story about rabies. So one morning last year my mom wakes up to get ready for work only to find that there is a bat flying around my house.
Did you know that April 1st is called April Fish Day in France? Actually, les French prefer to call it poisson d'Avril ... good thing we're in America where we don't speak French or, as George W.
To the Mexican from your Jew - After mucho petting and taco-flavored kisses, we're going to do the horizontal salsa and make babies named Latke, Gefilte Fish and Cheech & Chong.
Hey I saw you two Saturdays ago at a Phi Delt party.
The other night I was drunkenly messaging people on Facebook, listening to some Pixies and wildly vomiting into my trash can, when it suddenly occurred to me that I don't get the term 'hipster.'
Does anybody really know what this word means?
Media can be used as an instrument for change.The very week we print our incendiary critique of the arguably insufficient "Four or Fewer" campaign in the March 18th issue of Street, the Office of Health Education changes its message to "Take Your Time," as seen in its ubiquitous advertising printed in our parent paper, The Daily Pennsylvanian.
Did the OHE sense the growing awareness of a newly informed student body?
I have, in recent years, come to terms with my addictive personality. And I don't mean in the sense that people are addicted to my personality, though that happens too.