Sasha awoke too soon for his liking. He felt as if he’d seen the sun rise but an hour ago, when really the waning effects of wine had enabled him to soundly sleep away the past few. It was near … Read More
This week, Andrew likes the Red Hot Chili Peppers. His parents are relieved that his Bieber phase seems to have ended; last week, every time they got in the car, Andrew would say, “De-spa-ci-to.” And so they would listen to “Despacito” on repeat.
“Excuse me, do you have an extra cigarette?” I asked a woman outside New York Penn Station on my way home from Reunions in June. As I inhaled, the previous nine months began to transform from life to memory, things that were happening to things that had happened, becoming things that had happened to me rather than things I had made happen.
As you might have guessed, the _Nassau Weekly_ is full of a bunch of super-nerds who are really into books and junk. To give you an indication of how into books they are, consider this: Every week, they have their … Read More
A few years ago, the artsy and presumably transity Peter B. Lewis threw enough money at the University to roughly eclipse Rick Ross’ monthly champagne budget.
I fell in love with Lana Del Rey a week after I got my driver’s license. Sixteen and in the deeper throes of teenage angst, I’d taken to calling the suburban split-level I’d grown up in “my parents’ house” and spending as much time as possible out with my steady, if less than stable, high school boyfriend.
It is that time of year again, when the breezes grow colder and the leaves begin to turn, when the freshmen amble onto campus looking for love and the fast-track to Goldman Sachs, and when the Daily Princetonian’s ancient printing press begins to crank out the book reports, advertorials, and speculative fiction it is famous for. It is time, of course, for PrinceWatch.
Cemeteries are not really my scene. In my lifetime thus far, I have been blessed enough to not have to watch the body of a loved one be lowered down into physical oblivion. That is not to say that I have never been to a cemetery; I have gone with close friends for support. The ritual tends to be the same: find the place of burial, replace the wilted flowers with fresh ones, and reflect on the life that now lives on in spirit.
