The mind of a bigot is like the pupil of the eye. The more light you shine on it, the more it will contract. – Oliver Wendell Holmes A polarizing topic comes up. We get anxious. Adrenalin floods into our veins, and our hands shake with the rhythm of our drumming hearts.
Opinions from our editorial board and contributors.
The glitz and glamour of attending a prestigious university in a sexy city can be quickly extinguished by seven a.m. wake-ups, whole libraries worth of reading assignments, and that smug bastard in your history class who seems to expertly manage both. Before long, you’ll experience the long lines at the Arts basement Subway and the cyberspace torture that is Minerva, then you’ll really start feeling depressed.
Websites where people can enter their personal information, upload a seven year old picture of themselves, and be matched with their soul-mate on a thousand levels of compatibility have caught the eyes of nerds and other socially awkward Internet users everywhere.
To those whose misfortune it may have been, at two p.m. on any given weekday at the beginning of this summer, after my logic class ended, to have found themselves somewhere along the most direct route – and I mean the most direct – between campus and my apartment on Rue St.
The Tribune applauds the Management Undergraduate Society’s decision last week to change the name of their frosh week from “Tribal” to “Superhero,” though we are deeply concerned over the predictably hyperbolic reaction to the original idea. The change came after howls of protest over the initial theme, and the online dissemination of a promotional video depicting a handful of Management students posing as members of various African and Central and South American tribes.
Apparently, you have already met the person you will marry by age 21. I call bullshit. I just hit the magical number and I’ll be damned if that saying rings true because, frankly, my options are looking bleak. I have yet to meet the Prince Charming who will whisk me off to a life of white picket fences.
Moving away from home for the first time triggered something inside my mind. As a Freshman, a sense of loss washed over me, and this sorrow manifested itself into a bizarre syndrome, an inexplicable dependency, a mind-boggling complex. A small fish in an increasingly bigger pond, I yearn for communication with those I left behind.
Jared had Subway. Fergie had Jenny Craig. I, Panthea Lee, have the Facebook. Just as those above institutions changed the lives of J-Money and F-Train, the Facebook has transformed the life of yours truly. (Note: for those poor, deprived souls that know not of what I speak, go to Thefacebook.
My mother always told me that “hate” was a very strong word. And I agree. Today, I no longer hate liver, I just intensely dislike it. I no longer hate my life; I only wish it were different. Completely different. Heck, I no longer hate Graham Jacobs, though I wish I could smash his conceited little face into a billion pieces and then send the smithereens to that new skank he’s dating.
It can happen anywhere, at any time. It is social torture. It is the Awkward Conversation-insignificant, trite repartee that neither party engaging in it cares about. Drawing from personal experience, the Panthea Institute of Over-analysis will now review three main sources from which it stems.