One of my friends asked me to help him put an outfit together for a concert we went to last week (which made me feel special). As we were driving to the venue, he made the comment, albeit jokingly, that we were twins, except I’m white and he’s black, which threw us into a conversation about race perceptions today. I feel in the same way that even if we don’t realize it, here at Wash. U.

I look like a tomato. Following several walks and a picnic last weekend, my skin is officially charred. See, it’s been a while since I’ve seen the sun in its current state and, as a result, I let my guard down (my guard being SPF 50 sunblock) and must deal with the pain until it fades.

Last Friday, I found myself entangled in a rousing game of Taboo, lightning-round, tiebreaker style. My team was up and my friend jokingly gave the clue to me, “It’s like our fist pound, but what white people do!” I said a handshake, but no. It turns out it was a high five, but my team still wound up winning, which was accompanied by several confusing instances of fist-pound-high-five-bro-hug-secret-handshake ambivalence.

I had the privilege of going roller skating with some of my friends in St. Charles a couple of weeks ago. When they invited me, I had the image in my mind of the skating rinks I am used to at home: 12-year-olds tentatively inching across a dirty, greased sheet of plastic set to the soundtrack of cheesy oldies music and the admonitions of its crotchety old owner.

I want to sleep. Badly. Last night I did not get to bed until 4:30 a.m. because I was working on a Spanish essay about Gabriel García Márquez and his work, “Crónica de una Muerte Anunciada.” “Crónica” is his work that is most grounded in reality, detailing the murder of an innocent man, Santiago Nasar.

I feel awkward. Everywhere I go, I see posters advertising events like Dr. Judy’s Tantric Sex Workshop and Anal Pleasure 101, and I, with my sheltered life, can’t help but blush. Red face notwithstanding, I am fully aware that students will enjoy these events, and they have every right to do so. What bothers me, [...]

I have a tendency to use semicolons in text messages. It’s a compulsion, really, that I associate with my childhood affliction—an obsession with grammar

I realized the other day that I’ve gone through three umbrellas since I’ve been here at school, quite a change from home, where it rarely rains after May.

They are too tight, too uncomfortable, and my thighs are too big, but it was for Halloween, and I chose to be a hipster. My friends and I planned it two or three weeks in advance: We would dress up as random counterculture groups and beg for candy at the Central West End as a nostalgic act of silliness.

Remember that part in “The Odyssey” when Odysseus returns to Ithaca and finds that everything has changed, up to the suitors prancing around like 50-year-old men at a prostate exam, legs clinched and manliness on full showcase?