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.
I am no fashionista. My mom picked out my first birthday dress (white lace), my Bat Mitzvah dress (pink raw silk), my prom dress (white lace again) and even my first college formal dress (tight and black).
Luckily, with seven female roommates, I have live–in style gurus.
I’m a sentimental, sappy, bear your soul in an '80s love song kind of girl. I hate to admit it and despite donning a coffee–drinking sarcastic shell, I’m really just made up of unicorns, hearts and bubble letters.
That being said, one might easily anticipate my reaction to the abroaders’ epic homecoming.
Disclaimer: This letter, this one right here, has been particularly difficult to write. In fact, even amidst all the term papers and stupid class blog posts and application essays, I've never dreaded writing something more.
I set out, at the beginning of Thanksgiving Break, determined to compose the best last "From The Editor" to ever grace the pages of any publication — bold and poignant and touching and smart.
I feel drugged. Really, on a cloud, different–than–drunk, numb–to–the–world, drugged. And, as someone who (believe it or not) hasn't ever touched a drug beyond the Benadryl and Epinephrin required by a severe allergy to peanuts, I have to say — it's quite a fascinating state of being.
This past week seems like a blur.