As the Editor–in–Chief of an arts and culture magazine, I feel it is both my civic and editorial duty to admit that I have fallen under the spell of One Direction.
Yesterday I went downtown to treat myself to a haircut and some much needed off–campus alone time. Seated comfortably in the safety of the rear¬–most station, I was ready to let my mind wander from the consuming topics of the Penn bubble.
Bobby Blue, medium rare, crunchified, sweet potato fries and fry sauce on the side, thanks. My name is Chloe Bower and I’m a burger addict.
More specifically, I’m a Bobby’s Burger Palace addict.
On Wednesday of last week I was only registered for two classes.
Not too dramatic, I know, but for me, under-enrollment was traumatizing. Advanced Registration had never failed me in the past.
I have a secret to share with you. Ready? I hate writing these letters. I'm not particularly funny (at least on purpose). I'm not witty or clever or profound.
Rather than use this space as a letter, I’m going to make you a list. If you remember from a few weeks ago (for the three people who read these beside my beloved Mom and Dad), organized girls love lists.
Halloween makes people uncomfortable. Some can’t handle all the costumes, all the candy, all the frat parties named with terrible rhymes.
But others get into it.
I had big plans for Fall Break. I wanted to go to Vegas. I had visions of flaunting my legality. I would sit at a slot machine, shmooze with Cher and sneak into the Real World suite at the Palms.
Then Yom Kippur happened.
With a last name like Goodman, I knew I couldn’t spend the holiest day of the year parading around with would–be Vegas showgirls.
When I was a kid I would devour Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. I would sit in my bathtub and soak for hours, reading and re–reading stories of broken hearts and bones, tales of ‘tough stuff’ and tragedies.
I think it stemmed from a typical t(w)eenage yearning to know what’s really up with our peers.
If you're reading this at all you're probably just, like soooo totally flungover (haha puns are just the best!) in bed on Sunday evening and are reflecting back on the 48 (or 72… or 96+) hours of flingin' flangin' fun you forgot to remember.