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Word on the Street

College is for Kids

Freshman year was a simpler time. Your room was the size of a closet, heat was free and, most importantly, Mom and Dad couldn’t yell at you to pick up your shit.

by KRISTEN FRANKE

Why Feb Club's Fab

Oh Feb Club, you have returned once again to bring a mix of joy and social awkwardness to the lives of Penn seniors.

by ADAM DRICI

Our Screen-Printed President

What makes us choose Chipotle over Qdoba? iPods over Zunes? Christianity over Judaism? Marketing. You can try to convince yourself of the benefits of one product over another, but rest assured that a well-crafted marketing campaign had a lot to do with your ultimate decision.

by ,

Cool Runnings

Weather.com informed me that last Friday afternoon would be “18 degrees, feels like 1.” So I bundled up in six layers and proceeded to class in College Hall, where I removed four of them in response to Facilities’ overzealousness with the classroom heaters.

by JULIE STEINBERG

Majorly Easy

A real live Ivy League-endorsed major sounded so glamorous. I woke up with a rare jolt of energy a few Wednesday mornings ago and blow-dried my hair for the first time in a while.

by ,

The Bubble of Brown-town

Welcome to Brown-town: the homebase of Penn's South Asian population. The brown — pretty evident. The town?

by ,

Word on the Street: As the election cools down, where's the new heat?

Now that the presidential campaign — replete with spam, robocalls and SNL skits — has begun to recede into the background, two words come to mind: now what?

by CARLIN ADELSON

Word On The Street: Average Nation

For those of you living under a rock the size of Alaska, the presidential election is five days away.

by JESSICA GOLDSTEIN

Taking Credit

It’s been relatively easy to bash Whartonites and their ilk over the past several weeks. “Look at those fat cats on Wall Street, with their $60 million severance packages,” everyone from the crazy guy next to the Button to The New York Times has sniffed.

by JULIE STEINBERG

Sex, casually

The other morning, when I woke up unsure of whether I was still drunk or just hungover, I found myself confronted by an important post-coital realization: I had screwed up (pun mildly intended). Before I go any further, understand that this is not that freshman-year-what-frat-house-am-I-in hungover regret.

by 34TH STREET

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