On "A Little Party Never Killed Nobody" and the plan to Move Dartmouth Forward.
I can list the bottles: Beaujolais, Dos Equis, Miller Lite, sometimes Jose Cuervo, sometimes Gosling’s—all sitting curbside in the sort of green bucket most people reserve for newspapers.
The beauty is the resistance of the moment. It lies in the fact that something pure and true is conceived amongst the stagnation and inertia of the Department.
I've spent a lot of time this term working out this theory I might have, right, just hear me out, let me know if this is making sense and if it could go somewhere.
they brought her out early
this year: all done up
on a pickin’ platter:
split n’ spread.
Stop what you’re doing right now, take a seat, and decide upon an answer to the question you will never stop hearing: “Oh, an English major? What are you going to do with that though?”
It happened in that natural way, where affection silently seeps in to the rough cracks of fumbled, forced first impressions.
To the Dartmouth community:
It is with great sadness that I write to inform you that the bubble has burst.
My dad says that he and his friends used to call Hawaii “the rock.” Many of his classmates and buddies went to Hawaii for the waves and never left. When you were on the rock, you got stuck. Plane tickets home were cashed in for long board and zinc funds.
"The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."
Atrophy leads us, by the hand, gently into that good night: an act repugnant to our visceral instincts.
People seldom emote in waiting rooms. Boredom glazes over their faces as they flip through the latest edition of Real Simple or re-read that email from their landlord detailing the guidelines for recycling, or lack thereof, in their apartment complex.