Closing time
(04/17/14 8:30am)
The first piece of journalism I ever wrote was my own obituary.
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The first piece of journalism I ever wrote was my own obituary.
On my first Halloween, my mom dressed me up as a cheerleader.
1,460 days. That’s college.
They do—but it’s probably not the pants.
I have no left brain.
If you watched the NFC Championship game on Sunday night between the Seattle Seahawks and the San Francisco 49ers, I hope you kept it on long enough to hear the most talked about sports interview of 2014 thus far.
Sauntering down the slate paths across the Quad, you see an acquaintance heading your way. You look up. You look around. Left and right. As you approach out comes the phone, fingers twiddling a frantically worded message to look as if you’re busy. Like you didn’t see them. You cross paths—but you pretend you didn’t.
Saturday, Nov. 23.
Duke has a culture overflowing with bountiful intellect and contagious influence. It is a community of established professionals and students on their way to a life of abundant success themselves. We are scientists and writers and engineers. Future doctors and lawyers. And, apparently, we are sports fans.
We were finishing our pregame warm-up last week before our match at the University of Virginia when one of my teammates’ parents arrived at the turf. A few last shots on goal, a few run-throughs of some set-piece plays and then it happened—she ran to the sidelines and embraced them after being away from her home in the United Kingdom since June.
Picture all of your friends celebrating an incredible triumph, while you are confined to a small, lonesome patch of land far away.
What’s the one thing for which you’re more willing to die than lose?
August 2010. I kept myself together, embracing my dad tightly one last time before he climbed into our family Chevrolet. My mom closed the trunk, the back window newly emblazoned with a Duke sticker below those of my older brothers’ universities. She waited, tolerantly and apprehensively at the same time, next in line to say goodbye to her baby girl.
“Welcome back, Class of _______!”
I looked up for what seemed like ages at the grandeur of stone and history as I stood, trivial and minute, in front of Westminster Abbey.
I am a straight, white girl.
Amateur.
I am an investor. And so are you.
It happens every January, like clockwork. Millions undertake a lifestyle of promised purity and resolution on the first of every year. New plans. New rules. New you. Despite our most hardened abilities of adherence and dedication, these resolutions are time and again undermined. We set restrictions on ourselves. We set guidelines for what we should be, what we shouldn’t be, what we can’t be. We have a vision of what we will be if we hold fast to this agreement with ourselves, and we ask Time to lend us a hand in success. It happens every January, like clockwork.
Ruthless addiction. Incomparable dependence. You need it. You can’t function without it. You’re jittery and restless, twitching uncontrollably until you’ve satiated these pangs of craving, until you’ve had your morning coffee.