Meal Plan Is A Scam

Extra, extra: Meal plan is a scam. (If meal plan is a part of your financial aid package, please read until the end.)

Here’s the meal plan situation by the numbers:

When examining these numbers, take into consideration that millennials spend an average of $237 dollars on groceries per month, which comes to about $2.67 per meal (assuming three meals a day). If you’re still not shocked, take into account that these numbers assume that you have no points or credits left at the end of the semester (which, I’ve never personally witnessed), and that you never spend a penny eating out.

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When MyPrint Calls You Out

I do not care for the new printing system, not one little bit.

Back in my day, you would upload your documents, they would be uploaded (or not, depending on your luck that day), and you’d be on your merry way. This new printing system… it mocks me with its colorful infographics and self-assured demeanor. “You’ve killed .6% of a tree, how does it feel to be a murderer?” it whispers as I struggle to print off my lab manual. “You’ve emitted 431 g of CO2  this month… I take it you’re not a believer in the Paris Agreement?” it taunts, impervious to my tears. So now, on top of how distraught I am to be doing work in the first place AND in addition to the pain of realizing I’ve started printing a color document on a black and white printer, I have to weep for f@cking mother nature.

I hate to break it to whoever made the new printing system, but the number of pages I print pains me just as much as it pains the environment. Do you think I want to be spending my Tuesday night reading and annotating the 300 pages of post-colonial underwater basket weaving history my professor assigned? Do you somehow imagine that I was happy to put off my 20-page term paper, write it all between the hours of 1 and 8 am, scramble to the SciLi at 8:59 am, and then sprint to my 9 a.m. to turn it in — the page still piping hot in my hand? NO.

Look, I’m not saying that I expect to have the extreme luxury of never feeling guilty. I expect to feel guilty when I make eye contact with the professor of my five-person seminar while waiting in line at the Blue Room—knowing full and well I skipped class that day. I expect to feel guilty when my roommate walks in on me watching Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, eating olives with my fingers, and giggling uncontrollably at Guy Fieri’s entire personhood. And sure, I even expect to feel a pang of guilt when I’m reprimanded for showing up to Thanksgiving dinner in (only) nipple pasties and fishnets. You know when I don’t expect to feel guilty? When I’m trying to print a paper that was assigned to me — a cosmic act completely out of my control.

If Brown wants to tangibly reduce its carbon footprint, it has to go straight to the top. Not to the Brown corporation itself, not to wildly unregulated megacompanies, not to the elected representatives that refuse to change harmful environmental policy — no — Brown must go to the absolute zenith of power. To the professors.

I promise you, if you tell my professor to stop assigning so many papers, everything will be solved! If I wasn’t printing 16 pages a semester for AMST 1900, I assure you that global warming would be fully reversed by 2020. And don’t even get me started on the two pages I print out every semester for (insert STEM class name). Abolishing readings, papers, and lab manuals is the only logical step forward, and if nothing else, I’m glad that the new printing system has paved the way for us, as a University, to come to this revelation.


Health Services Only Prescribes Tylenol

Sometimes I feel like Health Services doesn’t exist in the human realm. Every time that I walk through their uselessly heavy doors, I feel myself being transported to another universe. One where, presumably, the definition of what constitutes “helpful medical advice” are far laxer.

I visited Health Services this week because I had body aches, a headache, a sore throat, and nausea. The doctor that came into see me asked if I had tried taking Tylenol. “Yeah, a couple hours earlier, but it didn’t really help,” I mustered, millions of viral particles exploding from my orifices with every syllable. She looked me up and down, a pensive glint in her eye, and said “Well, you know what, taking Tylenol is probably the only thing you can really do right now. Oh, and drink more water.” With this sage advice, I was ushered out — a few disposable thermometers thrust into my hand, the door slamming behind me.

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WHY THE F@CK IS IT COLD AND SUNNY

I understand that the title may have betrayed a few aspects of my identity— yes, I’m from Florida; yes, I was born in California; yes, I’m obnoxious. But I resent that Providence’s temperature has been turned into a disgusting display of identity politics. I’m tired of my Northern brethren sneering at my plight— only after I tell them from where I hail. Northern or southern, rural Montana mountaineer or Bay area bro— are we not all human? Do we not all bleed red when cut? Do we not all have functioning nervous systems capable of recognizing how cruel the Providence wind can be?

Look, don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not one of those southerners, I did my research. I didn’t show up to Brown with a single pair of sandals in hand and a few pastel colored shorts, naively expecting the Northeast to cater to me. No, I perused Winter Coat Weekly for months before deciding on my perfect synthetic feather-filled friend. I weathered the jeers of my friends as I asked them innocent questions like “Why can’t I just wear my jean jacket?” I did my due diligence, all in the efforts to keep myself toasty in the icy winter months.

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How to Cuff the Hottie You Keep Seeing Around Campus

Look, I get it.

You’re hopelessly, irrevocably in love. Okay, sure, you’ve never actually spoken to them ─ that’s only a minor issue. After all, you’ve certainly seen them enough times to recognize the back of their head at a dimly-lit party, which is its own form of intimacy. At the end of the day, you know that your vibes align, you just need to figure out how to make the first move, and I’m here to help.

 

  1.       Do not, under any circumstances, try to speak to them.

At first glance, talking to the object of your affection might seem like a great idea. A simple self-introduction, a fact that relates the two of you (“Haven’t I seen you in my Beyonce: Herstory seminar?”), and a charming smile ─ what could go wrong? Everything. Everything could go wrong. Speaking to people needlessly puts you in a position of vulnerability. Opening yourself up to human connection at the risk of getting hurt? No, thank you. Instead, try silently staring at them from across the party. They’ll be sure to notice you, and they might even mention you to their friends!

 

  1.       Write a BBA about them.

Ah yes, the much more approachable relative of talking to your crush ─ writing them anonymous love letters. Though BBA (Brown Bears Admirers) has been defunct for a few months, rest easy knowing that BBA (Blueno Bears Admirers) provides a haven for all to deluge their lovestruck secrets. Though the seismic rebranding of BBA to BBA has caused a few followers to be lost in the process, some Brunonian is sure to tag your sweet. You can spend the rest of your day knowing that you’ve uplifted them and proceed to do absolutely nothing more. After all, you wrote the BBA. They should sense who you are and ask you on a date, not the other way around.

 

  1.       Make note of the places they frequent, and make sure that you’re there. Always.

Running into people is much less coincidental then you might have been led to believe. When it comes to your future spouse, it doesn’t make much sense to leave something so important up to cosmic luck. So, take your future into your own hands. Make a mental note of where you see them, whether that be local cafes, eateries, or libraries. Take a week of your time to really get acquainted with your lover’s second homes, spending at least seven hours in each place. The more time you spend sitting and waiting, the higher your chances of making awkward eye contact with your sweetheart when they come in. Scientific studies have shown that familiarity leads to love, so just make sure that you’re always within eyesight. They’ll have to say something at some point, even if they’re just asking to take the chair across from you.  

 

  1.       Tell all your friends about them in the hope that someone sets you two up.

Let’s be honest, “They were wearing a green sweater on Friday” is probably not a good enough description for your friends to immediately recognize your crush. However, nearly everyone is a Facebook Sherlock these days. I’m sure with a little determination and a hearty helping of elbow grease, your compatriots can make it happen. After all, what are best friends, casual friends, and distant acquaintances for? With Brown’s tight-knit and — at times — too small community, someone is sure to be able to link up the two of you. After that, it’s smooth sailing as your friend will no doubt arrange an elaborate blind date for the two of you.

 

  1.       Be yourself, if that’s what they’re into.

Imagine this ─ it’s a beautiful, crisp autumn day and you’ve done the unthinkable, you’ve introduced yourself to someone who was once just a beautiful stranger. Huzzah! You’ve thrown the hook, but how do you reel them in? The question might seem daunting, but the answer is simple: just be yourself, as long as they’re into that. You’re more than welcome to have your own hobbies, passions…  and interests on your own time, but if they’re not what your darling is interested in ─ drop your convictions immediately. A careful perusal of their Facebook and Instagram is sure to tell you what shows you should like, what foods you should be obsessed with, and the friend group that you should assimilate into. After initially drawing them in with your commonalities, you might even be able to slip in some of your real interests ─ just make sure not to do it too quickly.

 


Your First Night out after Midterms

 

8:00 p.m.: You’re getting ready; you’re pumped, you deserve this. You’ve had a long week, you’ve spent countless hours in the SciLi… So what if you blackout and wake up at 2 p.m tomorrow? The memories you don’t remember will be totally worth it.

9:00 p.m.: You start texting your friends, trying to figure out who’s up for the 24-hour rager you’re envisioning. “Sorry, I’m studying for exams next week :/” and “I don’t know… I’m pretty busy with work.” F@ck. After texting eight other people, you reach out to your freshman-year roommate that you talk to occasionally. They’re down.

10:00 p.m.: You find yourself at a dorm party. It seems like it might be a birthday, but you don’t know the host. Somehow, it was much more glorious when you were envisioning it a few hours ago. Kind of cramped and hot, when you think about it. At least the lecture hall had ventilation, you find yourself thinking. Wait. Why the f#ck are you comparing this party to your exam?  

11:00 p.m.: After a few drinks and a new location, you’re finally starting to have a good time. The white-girl-decor swirls together. Kind of looks like a bunch of hexagons. Hexagons. Where have you seen those before… A chill runs down your spine. You start thinking about the cyclical carbon chains on your organic chemistry midterm. Snap out of it, you think to yourself. It’s over, you don’t have to worry anymore. You’re enjoying rum-and-coke out of a red solo cup, you’re the epitome of relaxation. But… is it over? Did the professor schedule another midterm within the last two days? Maybe you should just check Canvas to make sure. You barely resist. Your thumb twitches

12:00 p.m.: You notice the cute girl from section standing to the side. Intoxicated, you decide to shoot your shot. You walk up to her, ready to deliver your smoothest one liner. “What… how did you think the exam went?” you hear yourself slur. F#ck! Can you relate to people on any level besides academic?! Why did you think that would be a good opener?? This isn’t freshman year anymore, that shit doesn’t slide. “I think it was okay, haha,” she says. You’re too drunk to discern if it’s a genuine smile or not (spoiler: it’s not). She moves towards her friends.

1:00 a.m.: Normally, this is when your night would start, but after a week of surviving on three hours of sleep a night, you’re ready to turn in. You turn to say goodbye to your old roommate, but you lost them a few parties ago. Damn. You start the trek home.  

11:00 a.m: You wake up, groggy, dry-mouthed, and with a headache. You haven’t felt this shitty in the last two weeks, you think happily. You try to keep your exam-paper-flashbacks at bay. Finally, the freedom to get f*cked up.