To my sister, future member, class of 2018
(04/28/14 8:34am)
To my sister, future member, Duke Class of 2018,
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To my sister, future member, Duke Class of 2018,
Hello! I’m writing to you today with great enthusiasm that can only stem from unspoken but clear desperation. I am a graduating senior, and I’d like for you to offer me a job for next year.
Children are eccentric little nuggets. For me, my eccentricities could best be described as “exceptionally annoying.” People used to call me “Megaphone Mouth” for my well-paired traits of an extremely loud voice and an extreme inability to shut up ever. I was simultaneously a teacher’s dream and their nightmare—I was smart and driven, but would also do things in class like make fake Pokemon cards, convince my partners in group work that doing “blood brother” pacts was probably more important than math and would occasionally leave my seat at random to do “star jumps” in a corner. How else would my teacher know my star potential if I didn’t jump up and down screaming it?
In these past few weeks, Duke has taken some big steps. We elected a promising and qualified new DSG president—who also happens to be our campus’s third consecutive woman president and the second woman of color in three years. Feminist applause all around (of course, under the rules of feminism, you can clap whatever you like). On top of that, we’ve had like eight snow days. AND, on a personal note, I recently conquered K-Ville and was able to spend a whole 60 percent of a night in a tent before bailing and sleeping under a radiator in a Crowell common room.
SEX. PORN. XXXTRA HOT GIRLS. FIVE GIRLS, ONE ANTIQUE VICTORIAN VASE.
Last year was the first year I attended Me Too Monologues. Despite my interest in social justice issues and in the experiences of my fellow students, I’d never made time to attend the show, which highlights aspects of students’ identity and experiences on campus. I could say that I finally went because my schedule was free, or, because, as an upperclassman, I was more aware of on-campus events. But, the reality is, I went mostly to see how the monologue I’d written was performed.
Lillie Reed is a Trinity senior. Her column is part of the weekly Socialites feature and runs every other Wednesday. Send Lillie a message on Twitter @LillieReed.
Spring has sprung at Duke, to the usual consequences. You’ve surely realized how big of an uninvolved, oversexed idiot you were first semester, made a resolution to stop going out so much and start signing up for extracurriculars—by February deciding your Shooters VIP Club membership is just as impressive as any other resume stuffer. Spring means a campus filled with newly stateside juniors and second-semester seniors who are simultaneously nostalgic and panicking. And, perhaps most obnoxiously, it means the beginning of rush.
On his second Christmas break home from college, Duke University sophomore Michael Grand reports that he can no longer relate to any of his friends from high school.
My brain and I have been playing a super fun game recently. It’s called “Reflect on every poor decision you’ve ever made ever.” It’s like Sorry, except you’re the only player, so you just repeatedly screw yourself over.
First and foremost, let me apologize. This article will make no sense. I’ll admit it: I’m on drugs. I found out today that I have vocal nodes, a la Pitch Perfect. In the process of finding these nodes, as strange medical instruments violated my nose, I accidentally inhaled some sort of stimulant. I think there is a good chance it was aca-amphetamine, because I feel like I could wrestle a bear. But alas, the show must go on, even if your teeth are sentient and attempting to eat your face.
Intelligence, once thought to be a complex trait created through a mixture of many genes and environmental factors, was proven in a recent study to be entirely determined by a single gene that influences skin color.
Duke’s campus is frigid, and it isn’t just the change of seasons. So now that it’s Gender Violence Awareness Week, I’m taking this excuse to get raunchy. I’ve dabbled in mild sexual references and unnecessary innuendos, but now I have some questions I want answered. I present to you: intimate inquiries.
Recently, there has been an upswing in political activism regarding a very important on-campus issue. This problem, crucial to Duke’s continued stance as a front-runner in social justice and advocacy issues, has student activists up in arms and ready to do whatever it takes to bring to justice the—oh, f*ck it, I just don’t care anymore.
It’s becoming increasingly obvious. I can deny it NO LONGER: I am a Dukebag.
Back in sixth grade, when everyone was awkward and the AIM chats didn’t matter, my one friend Pantsy (whose name has been changed to protect his identity and reflect his choices) wore these really great pants. And by great I mean terrible. They were mustard yellow, MC Hammer, basketball shorts-material capris. Now, I was no fashionista myself—that same year, I sported almost exclusively tie-dye and soccer shorts, and I needed a full-out intervention to be convinced to wear a bra. I also had a habit of trying—and failing—to put on makeup. When people pointed out that neon orange eye shadow was not, in fact, the new hot trend, I would say my little sister put it on me in my sleep—a lie only one of my friends ever pointed out as blatantly untrue, which either indicates I had very nice friends, or the rural South’s educational system is truly in shambles. Likely both.
A new study from Duke University has found that college is the best four years of your life, and afterwards everything just goes to s**t.
Hello Dukies, and happy o-week! If you’re reading this, congratulations! You are either way too excited about Duke and have already found the boondocks that are the Chronicle Opinion Pages, or you’re finally sober enough to achieve functional literacy. But like I say to the stray Durhamites who walk into my apartment: I don’t care why you’re here—but I’m gonna make it worth your while.
Nostalgia is inherent to this part of the year. The holidays, a full year to reflect on and exams to procrastinate for can always provoke a hearty reminisce. Personally, as Christmas approaches, my mind usually wanders to childhood and the extreme lengths I went through to fool my little sister into believing in Santa—and pretty much anything else. (One time I convinced her that the song “Cotton Eye Joe” is a true, woeful lament about a blind foundling who ran away from his foster home. WHERE DID YOU COME FROM, WHERE DID YOU GO?!)
The other day, I set out on a mission—a humanitarian effort, if you will—to benefit mankind. My goal: Make everyone in the world get Snapchat.