Judger of men: Bot…I would say.
Lover of men: Why is everyone a bot these days?
Judger of men: AI Era.
Overheard in girl dorm
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A Horse Walks Into a Bar
A horse walks into a bar. The Bartender says, “Why the long face?” “Well,” the horse says, “it’s my life.” “What about your life,” the bartender says, “What’s the story?” “That’s just it,” says the horse, “I don’t have a story. I’m a horse, And I’m like all the other horses, and all the…
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Girls (after Jamaica Kincaid’s 1978 “Girl”)
Even if it’s sticky outside, bring a sweater if you’re going to ride the subway at night; your clothes are too tight, change before you leave; your clothes are too loose, they don’t do you any favors; if you’re being followed, don’t go home, stay calm, call a friend on the phone, walk into a…
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Yesterday’s Coffee
“The first time I saw the house for itself—not as the house two doors down, but as the house that could be parent’s—was the estate sale. Here, the relics of a life.”
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The Second Life of U.S. Steel
A Nass reporter ventures as far as Arkansas to document new developments in the green steel industry
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These Months, Which Have Been Some of the Fastest of My Life: Full Design
After a brief holiday, the Nass is back slinging steel, learning Russian, and falling in love. Find a copy around campus or read the full design online here!
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Trong, Lam, Trump, and Biden: A Vietnamese Student’s Thoughts on the Upcoming Election
A few things Americans might be missing about November’s general election
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Conversations in a Time Warp: Tribute to my Beloved Cafe
Vignettes on an enigmatic Polish woman and the Boston area cafe she runs.
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I agree, a little, sometimes
“I love truth — as I once wrote in my homework). I soon learned to compromise by articulating smaller truths when I couldn’t articulate bigger ones.”
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They could never make a Sofia Coppola robot
Thoughts on filmic solitude from a solitary Nass writer in Portugal
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Attempts to Exhaust Yourself
Exercises in wearing yourself out and–actually–getting some writing done
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Nass Recommends: Gay Romance Novels
Ten of our top picks (plus a couple honorable and dishonorable mentions)
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listen for green anemoia
twenty minutes from the center of the city once rice fields that my grandmother admired each morning whispering to dragonflies in the cup of her palm squint at night and see cold stars tearing away the horizon motorcycles and black clouds. in our kitchen, my mother cuts her finger unwrapping three layers of stiff…