You finally made it to the end of the world that is 35th and Market streets. Maybe you Uber–ed there. Waiting room, uncomfortable stares in the corridor, “please pee in this cup.” The coast is clear! You’re being admitted to the Doc (nurse practitioner?) without running into your ex, someone in your sorority, your freshman year hallmate (“OMG I haven’t seen you forever!”) or mom’s personal spy: your little brother. You reach the nearest bathroom, cup awkwardly dangling from your arm at your side, when the door opens toward you. “Oh hey!!!!” Your friend’s roommate smiles at you and eyes the cup. “How are you?” you automatically ask. “Good, you?” Your puffy eyes say otherwise, you think. “Good...”
After frantically scrambling to print your essay in Van Pelt (after waiting 15 minutes for a computer to open up) nothing adds to the stress of running to class like taking off, unzipping and showing off the contents of your backpack. That split second the guard takes to momentarily glance inside is hardly enough time to scan for a stolen library book—what else are they checking for, anyway? Maybe they should start inspecting students upon entry, and stop people from plopping at carrels with smelly take–out (and eventually, even smellier leftovers). Just a suggestion.
Freshman or senior, we’ve all been there: home, alone and hungry—the perfect storm that always leads to delivery. But you’ve got to be kidding if you order from Pod. Too good for GrubHub? In the mood to drop mad money on some decent–but–not–mind–blowing sushi? Please, can someone explain to us how and why Penn students regularly opt for fine dining delivery? What happened to broke college kids surviving off of Ramen? Snaps for defying stereotypes?
Worst purchase: Facebook likes
You thought you were regretting buying those boots right as the weather finally got nice, but at least they didn’t ruin your (albeit fake) political career. If you didn’t religiously follow the House of PennCards that was the UA elections this year, Gabe Delaney, the now disgraced VP of the UA, and his running mate Julie Bittar, broke some NEC rules about spending on printing costs (riveting, we know.) While everyone was yelling about purchased FB likes, they were never actually confirmed, but the Penn–merican Public knows the truth. Have you seen the likes? It’s all cats and fake models and a couple of Bittar’s uncles. But let’s be real: Joyce, would have won anyway.
Worst floor of Pottruck: first
There are not many good things about Pottruck, besides the fact that it’s free. It houses the stuff of nightmares, aka treadmills. If you are going to take on the noble challenge of a workout, avoid this floor where everyone, fellow gym equipment users or smoothie bar lovers alike, is staring at you. Yes, they are noticing that you actually have no idea how to use the equipment or run like a normal human being. There are so many floors where you can privately waste thirty minutes in hell. If you are going to go to Pottruck at all, you are doing yourself a huge disservice if you don’t explore the upper levels. Walking up and down those steep–ass stairs becomes part of your workout, which means you really only need to spend about seven minutes on the treadmill.
Worst requirement: Physical World
There is physically nothing in this world more obnoxious than Penn’s insistence that all College students take a Physical World course. It’s one thing to want a “liberal arts background”—make the pre–meds take writing classes—but for those not interested in science, these classes will give you NOTHING but stress and pain. The math one can be avoided with Linguistics or Musicology and the Living World has some semi–interesting and/or easy options like PSYC 001, but Physical World is a guaranteed hell. Sure, it has the two–for–ones that also take care of Quantitative Data & Analysis, but that just makes the courses more mathy and more awful. Any boring accrued info is lost upon taking/bombing the final, so its uselessness cannot be overstated. Formulas begone—we should’ve gone to requirement–less Brown, because none of us EVER want to survey a universe like this one.
Spring has sprung (and fling has flung) just in the nick of time. Thanks to the powers that be, the never–ending winter has finally ended. Goodbye slush puddles sur- rounding the sidewalks, see ya hat hair, peace out shoe– ruining rock salt. The days of slipping down Locust have come and gone; now you can grab your crush’s attention with that cute sundress instead of that not–so–cute fall right onto your butt. The sound of chattering teeth and slushing snow boots has been replaced by chirping birds and unlucky Hill kids bitching about their lack of A/C. Ah, what a sweet sound.
Worst big–ass lecture hall: Irvine
The main lecture hall in Irvine Auditorium, you know...the one where you took PSYC001 at 9 a.m. (when you actually showed up), has over a thousand seats. While we admit the room itself is beautiful, it is definitely not the ideal place to sit through an early morning lecture. The dim lighting and the cushy seats put you right to sleep at that ungodly hour. Not to mention the lack of desks! Laptop toting students have to type awkwardly on their laps while computers slowly begin to overheat against thighs. If you’re one of those students who prefers to handwrite...good luck with that. I bet your notes will be unintelligible scribbling while your hand falls asleep from the uncomfortable angle in which you have to hold your arm. Lose–lose.
Worst entrance: Huntsman on a Sunday Night
On Sunday nights, the line outside Huntsman rivals the one outside Rumor on a Thursday. Backpack–clad students from all four schools wait impatiently to be personally swiped into everyone’s (least) favorite silent study kingdom. No matter how long the wait, only one lone security guard sits with a hand–held machine, checking PennCards one by one. After minute five of waiting, you realize you know six other people in line. Inevitably someone will try to cut, saying they’re “in a rush”—but we know they just want to secure a study spot first. There has to be a more efficient way to do this.
Worst fling attendees: Liquor Control Enforcement
NSO is all about the ratios: who you know and who you’re with totally deter- mines if you’re getting into a party. But Fling? Fling’s about camaraderie and collective drunken tomfoolery. Or it was, before the LCE descended and forced us to add wristbands and tickets and exclusivity into the mix of our favorite weekend. This campus ain’t big enough for all of us, and the LCE presence even pushed some of our dear flingers into the throes of Camden, New Jersey. Ugh! Even worse, these party poopers send snitches first to snap pictures and and immediately call for backup. In the words of these non–invitees, if you can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em.
