It was 9 a.m. Awakened, as I often am, by sunlight, I opened my door to go to the bathroom downstairs. Supine, to the side of my door, was a male form, blonde and muscular and naked. His hands were cupped over his genitals, his underwear crumpled by his head. His eyes were closed. I froze in surprise, but I had to pee, and out of some ingrained politeness didn’t want to disturb him. I stepped over him quietly and went downstairs.
As the recent New York Magazine article, “Why Do Women hate Anne Hathaway (But Love Jennifer Lawrence)?” thoughtfully explores, Anne Hathaway bugs people. Unlike the magnetic Jennifer Lawrence, Hathaway has always had trouble garnering public affection. For the most part, I try to stay away from the popular sport of celebrity hating that this article examines.
Do not listen to the rumors. In fact, starting right now, do not listen to anyone. No, not your closest friends. No, not even your mom. Definitely not your mom. Everyone is out to sabotage you. Paranoia is the only way to survive. I might be a saboteur (I’m not). But I might be (again, I’m not). Trust no one (except me).
WHO IS THE PRINCETON COAT THIEF? If you’re like me, then you have received countless emails from your residential college listserv that sound something like this: Hey Guys! Sorry to spam, but I lost my coat at (insert eating club … Read More
I bounded through the dance studio’s door, hiding my apprehension under several layers of brightly colored spandex. I had never been to Zumba before. In fact, I have only ever attended one aerobics class in my short 18 years. It was in Rome, and a classmate who convinced me that it would be fun dragged me along. Obviously, my friend and I defined “fun” very differently.
I don’t remember when my sister and I began baking cookies together, but soon it was a permanent fixture, the ritual of our childhood. Every Monday at seven o’clock, our mother would drop me and Cecily off at our father’s house.