Noah B. Pisner
“Something that I’m really proud of is that bamboo right there,” says Zamyla M. Chan ’14, nodding her head to the grass shoot potted beside her laptop. “I’ve been taking care of it since sophomore year. It started off really short and it’s grown a lot.”
Near the end of his guest lecture in Folklore and Mythology 90i, Neil Gaiman informs the students that he doesn’t like doing interviews because it takes up time he could be using to work on a story, write a screenplay, or author a graphic novel. My gut drops when I then introduce myself as the reporter who’s going to prevent him from writing for the next half-hour. He smiles and shrugs, “We ought to get started then.”
“The ad hoc process is greatly shrouded in mystery; remarkably little is written about it,” says current Senior Vice Provost for Faculty Diversity and Development Judith D. Singer. She smirks wryly as she swigs coffee from her mug, as if this is something she’s explained a hundred times before.
Jason Alexander, the “Seinfeld” star and Tony Award-winning Broadway actor, wears a beige tweed coat low on his shoulders and speaks with a confidence that seems worlds away from his notorious television alter-ego, George Costanza. His teenage son, who accompanied him on the trip, chats with a few Folklore and Mythology professors in the adjacent room. They later tell us that our laughs were impressively loud coming through the Warren House’s burly 19th century walls.
Thinking about watching “Love Actually” because it’s Valentine’s Day? Don’t. Here to save you from Hugh Grant’s estrogen-churning narration and a blond Severus Snape, FM brings you prime celluloid flicks for every Valentine’s Day occasion.
It’s not easy to admit it when you’re wrong. It’s not easy to do one armed pull ups.
I no longer know what to believe in. One day, glorious winter is upon us, sheathing us in a cold white burrito wrap and masking the falseness that lies beneath in the austere perfection of thinglessness. Rarely has my heart been as thrilled as when I saw the world reduced to this.
I snap a fifth tongue depressor against my inside jaw, giving it a wet chew before lobbing it into the trashcan a foot and a half away.
Dear “Dear Readers” Readers, I have a confession to make.
Happy Halloween, 11.5 months belated.
I’d stay home and babysit my sister while mother would go off and sweat on sad middle-aged men who weren’t my father. The sweat would bead like rain drops on a car window.
“I think it’d be easy. I don’t think it’d be hard at all to lose my virginity to someone.”
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