Satire: The timeline of relationships
I'm in my bitter era. Maybe it's because I'm single before Valentine's Day, or maybe it's because you people are testing me.
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I'm in my bitter era. Maybe it's because I'm single before Valentine's Day, or maybe it's because you people are testing me.
Back when I was 16, a long list of "nevers" clung to me wherever I went, like a loose thread I could never shake. I had never been kissed. I had never had sex. I had never even been on a real date. It felt like a glaring label hanging over my head that exposed my inexperience with sex, love and relationships — some of the most defining aspects of adolescence — to my peers, who seemed to date and find love with ease.
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Every day, I carry a dance bag. It’s a navy blue duffel bag, to be exact, and it has everything I need: flat ballet shoes, hairpins, a snack of vegetables and hummus, extra pairs of tights and soft boots that keep my feet warm. I place my dance bag in the same spot every class — top left on the highest shelf — and when I’m done, I run back to grab it as fast as I can to get a good seat next to my friends before rehearsal.
Sometimes, shopping for secondhand clothes at ASU can feel like a competitive sport — especially for the uninitiated. Just imagine: The double doors of the Buffalo Exchange on University Drive slam behind you for the first time, and with it, pulsing dread sets in like a second heartbeat. When you walk out those doors, you need to leave with an outfit that impresses the nearly 80,000 other students on campus and that will somehow summon the people who will become your forever friends.
In the beginning, learning a new language can seem impossible. Not only are you expected to memorize a sea of new vocabulary and a maze of complex syntax rules, but you also have to be willing to make mistakes, accept that embarrassment is inevitable and have the courage to throw yourself into another culture while hoping the native speakers will be patient with you.
"Meow."
By the hands of animators, the lifeless come to life. With every frame, a universe develops, brought to life by the whirlwind of intense emotions the characters experience as they embark on mystical adventures. Animated classics, like “The Lion King,” “Spirited Away,” “Shrek” and more, invite us into an illustrated world where fantasy has no boundaries.
After months of racing from class to class, hunkering down in the library and working nonstop, the highly anticipated Thanksgiving and winter breaks give stressed students a welcome reprieve.
Trader Joe’s isn’t where I go to make smart financial decisions. It’s where I go to buy frozen meals when I’ve procrastinated too much to have time to cook, restrain myself from stockpiling seasonal novelties and roam the aisles fantasizing about an employee who looks like their main food group is granola.
After 20 years of breaking up and making up with friends, here’s the one lesson I’ve learned about friendship: You have to actively choose it.
I am not Claire. I am Beatrice. I am Deedee. I am Katherine. I am Little Girl No. 2. I am 40 men in suits. I’m 2,000 script pages and 643 restless nights. I am four dead families and eight different counties. I am 99 patchwork quilts. A sarcastic fridge magnet. An ironic bumper sticker. I’m my car, or my house, or his house or your house — it wouldn’t matter. I am an idea, a project. Five boys’ wet dreams. 17 men’s unsuccessful victims. Two parents’ failures. I am anything but real, an unidentifiable object. I am two new sneakers made to look dirty. I am him, or I am her, or I am 72 minutes of voice-over in a Chinese animated movie. I am desperate for help. I am eight boxes of hair dye. I’m 116 pounds. I am lonely. I am your girlfriend’s daughter. I am 21 hours of film. I am the burdens of those before me. I am my mother’s daughter. I am trying. I am something. I am nobody at all.
The worms that live in my brain make themselves known in plenty of ways: My bitten nails, pounding headaches and bad thoughts all go back to the nuisances in my frontal lobe slowly chipping away at my sanity. On good days, they operate as a copilot, a second-in-command. On the bad days, they usurp their leadership. Usually, they manifest as random urges — swerve the wheel, hit your head, breathe faster, faster, faster until you can’t breathe at all. Shake and cry when everything’s okay. Do anything but what you’re supposed to, and drag everyone down while you do it.
I’m not a journalist anymore.
Imagine you’ve been dreaming your whole life of working in Hollywood, with all its glittering promises of fame and fortune. The mere possibility that a famous actor will say a line or joke you wrote, or the chance that you’ll star in or direct the next blockbuster film fuels your drive. The dream of making a living from doing something you love — something creative and fulfilling — continuously propels you forward, even amid box-office bombs and audition rejections.
The ASU men’s swim and dive team is in its element.
To many Sun Devils and future students, Barrett, The Honors College may seem like just an advertisement in a pamphlet — a mysterious ASU gimmick only really understood by the select students enrolled in it.
It's a Saturday night in October. A sea of maroon and gold floods Mountain America Stadium. The student section crawls with animated fans. Surging with adrenaline, Talen Osborn decides this is his chance to do the unthinkable — hop onto the railing and steal the show.
I’ll always remember the way my heart dropped when the gut-wrenching news came out that fighting had broken out in Khartoum, the capital of Sudan.
This summer, no one saw Lauren Bly. At least, no one saw the Lauren Bly they knew before.
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