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Content warning: The following text describes assault and can be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
I’ve always been a bit of a mushroom enthusiast. The wide range of colors and types I’d see on walks through the mountains in North Georgia made it inevitable. Once I discovered Champignouf, a mushroom photo identification app, I was able to recognize the bright red Alice in Wonderland–esque toadstools as the fly agaric, and the seaweed–like, coral fungi emerging on the sides of the paths as ramaria. I was even known among my floormates for my mycology posters and mushroom throw pillows.
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?
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.
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.
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.
I hid my scale in April 2020, knowing that the many hours of boredom–induced eating would catch up to me at some point. At the same time, I watched the light purplish–brown stripes on my stomach flourish and thrive as I withered with each day of lockdown.
Content warning: The following text describes instances of abuse, which can be disturbing or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
Content warning: The following text describes rape and sexual assault, which can be disturbing or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
Going to campus won’t fix my problems, my mom said.
You would think a lifetime of watching rom–coms and reading paperback romance novels would have prepared me for my first heartbreak. It didn’t even come close. I guess it’s because those stories usually have a happy ending, or at least the kind where the two people grow from the pain, move on, reflect fondly over their time spent together, and all that other flowery shit. (I’m looking at you, La La Land). But when I went through my first breakup, it felt like I’d reached the end of a cliff—there was nothing beyond but rock bottom.
The first time I remember meeting you, you were late. You said that it wasn’t actually the first time we’d met—that I’d been introduced to you, multiple times, two years prior (once upon a Toasty Tuesday). But, that first day, you were indeed quite late, and I was a little ticked off.
“I don’t think I would have been smoking weed to feel better if I hadn’t been just sitting at home all day not doing anything.” Emma* (C’23) says. As we come upon our eighth mind–numbing month of social distancing, her sentiments are especially relatable.
We are at this point in life where it becomes increasingly difficult to mold our values towards our best self and our actions towards our personal values.
Content warning: The following text describes eating disorders and can be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
The first time I had sex was Halloween of my freshman year. He texted me that morning to remind me “I wasn’t like the other girls,” and snuck shots of Vodka into my Copa lemonade. I think I wanted him to be my boyfriend even though he had the restless energy of a frat boy with too much free time, so I let him hit it from behind in his twin XL bed. He cuddled me for 20 perfunctory minutes before declaring his friend had bottle service at some downtown. He was planning on going but I could stay as long as I liked. After fucking me once more the next day, we didn’t talk for a month, and then sporadically after, like the contact was clearing his conscience.
I don’t like how time takes me farther away from you. It’s not the space, it’s the time, the number of days that pass since I’ve woken up beside you, making me feel like you’re moving farther and farther away. It's after midnight and I'm lying awake in a hotel room bed next to my sister and this is the only thing I can think. It didn’t matter when you left to go home to Chicago for the holidays and I stayed to wait for my family to pick me up. You weren’t far away when you left. You only got that way later.
It was a breezy Sunday morning, one set for the perfect brunch with lopsided pastries and a warm cup of coffee in hand. It was the kind of day when dog owners would wake up early to go running in the park. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and the world seemed at peace.
As the cliché goes, I was a little girl who loved weddings. I dreamed of the poofy cupcake–like dress, the cake, and the flowers, among other things. One thing that continually frustrated me when I was little, though, was the fact that my parents never had any wedding photos. I would push and push, asking where they were, who took them, why we didn’t have them at our house. All my mom could muster up was, “they’re at my parent's house,” or, “next time your aunt comes to visit, she’ll bring them.” Multiple aunts and uncles visited, and each time I wondered and pressed as to where the photo album was, until my mom snapped and told me not to ask about it. Only several years later would I be told why the photo album didn’t exist.
**Content warning: The following text describes sexual assault and can be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.**
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