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I jolt awake from my fitful, melatonin–induced nap. “¡Bienvenidos a Costa Rica!” blares the speaker in what is reminiscent of an Adam Sandler vacation movie. The book assigned as my spring reading, Ursula K. Le Guin’s anarchist science fiction Dispossessed, lays embarrassingly pristine on my lap, utterly untouched save for a marking on page five and a smear of thick five–a.m.–wake–up–call drool.
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 had two names growing up: my American name and my Korean name. It seems complicated, but it isn't really.
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.
If you take everything else away, I would contend that my defining characteristic is my hair. As a kid, my nickname was broccoli, based solely on the fact my hair resembled a sprouting floret. Coming into the COVID–19 pandemic, I remember a teacher noting that while he struggled to recognize the rest of his students in their masks, he always knew I was approaching because of my signature mane. Everyone’s first compliment was of my curls and their last question was an inquiry into my hair routine—to which I always falsely answered, “I don’t even know,” as if I didn’t spend hours on Sunday pre–conditioning, co–washing, plumping, or whatever other tips I picked up from the endless curly hair influencers I followed.
Of the 3,404 students admitted to Penn’s Class of 2024, 168 of them hailed from the city of Philadelphia. While it is highly unlikely that every Philadelphia admit accepted their offer of admission from Penn, it can be assumed that around 5% of the 2,400–person junior class possesses the unique perspective of attending college in the same city where they reside based on the number originally admitted. Statistically speaking, then, being included in this percentage is a rarity on this campus.
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.
How I met them: at Wawa (agh), on Tinder, on Tinder again, six months later (aghhghh), through mutual friends, in class, in the 4th floor of DRL, the math lounge, of all places.
For the past 365 days, I've kept a photo diary on Instagram, documenting the minutiae of everyday life—the joyful moments and the challenging ones, too. One year has amounted to dozens of sweet, lighthearted photos with friends old and new, too many photos of food captured moments before ravenous consumption, at least half a dozen outfit–of–the–day videos, and the occasional selfie of me grinning and bearing the pain of academic dread.
For years, I’ve had a weekly tradition of tuning in at 11:30 PM to watch Saturday Night Live as it airs. To me, SNL is the pinnacle of comedy, with hilarious sketches and insanely well–produced pre–tape videos, all created from scratch within a week.
The first time I cried at my job as a front–of–house hostess, I was already four months in.
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: This article contains references to anti–Asian racism and descriptions of graphic imagery, which may be disturbing and/or triggering to some readers.
Ed. note: On Aug. 29, the Sept. 7 move out deadline for the UC Townhomes was pushed back to Oct. 8 after the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development agreed to extend the complex’s affordable housing contract. This is the second time that the owners of the townhomes have received a contract extension from HUD.
The summer after COVID–19 hit, I didn't have a job.
As a former Jenny Han addict, I knew I had to drop everything and watch The Summer I Turned Pretty the moment it dropped on Hulu. For the uninitiated, the book–adapted series follows the story of Isabella “Belly” Conklin, a 15–year–old whose family stays in a summer home at the Hamptons–esque Cousins Beach every year, courtesy of her mom’s well–off best friend Susannah and Susannah’s two teenage sons.
I’ve never been in a romantic relationship.
Content warning: This article describes sexual assault, graphic depictions of abortion, and violence, which may be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers.
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.
Solutions by The State News