SATURDAY THOUGHT BUZZ

The weight of the computer creates dents in his pudgy thighs, and the ball of his bare foot taps the ground incessantly. Clink tick clink goes the bulb in the corner under the heavy maroon lampshade. It occurs to Jacob that this lamp is older than he is, and a prickle of cold sweat dazzles across the back of his neck. Life would be better as light, he thinks.

He holds out hope that the right Google search will show him how he can get his wife to love him again.

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ON THE STATE OF THE UNIVERSITY: ROTHING AT THE MOUTH AND CAMPUS PUBLICATIONS

And this is different, something that demands questions older generations loathe to even suggest. Millennials get called “the Me Me Me generation” by some and the “least useful generation in America” by others. And yet, I don’t see that. I see a generation that got handed a raw deal: a crumbling economy, an imploding climate, a Congress so dysfunctional it makes the Study Abroad Office look like the pinnacle of efficiency. We move forward with a well-worn cynicism, but with the pace of life as it is, we still move forward. I won't go so far as to claim we're the next great generation, but something's changing. 

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ON THE STATE OF THE UNIVERSITY: DID WESLEYAN DECLARE A WAR ON FUN?

To be clear, this article does not condone binge drinking, nor claim any Beastie Boyudian “Right to Party.” Steps had to be taken, and the University did so. Rather, it’s to encourage a dialogue on how a residential university operates. It’s to disrupt the notion that Tour de Franzia can be replaced by Lazor Tag on Foss. It’s to take Beyond the University quite literally, to reiterate that an education happens inside and outside the classroom. Parties do not make a university, but community does. The person from my Marx seminar playing beer pong on Fountain, the girl who’s teaching my WesBam class dancing at Eclectic, or the first stranger I came out to on the porch of WestCo- these are moments that make this campus feel alive and like home.

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DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL

As a board member at the station, I’ve spent many afternoons in the overheated room pretending to listen to my fellow board members while my eyes scour the walls, though it would probably take me another couple lifetimes to take mental inventory of everything. A beloved mainstay of the busy room is a scrawled dial on the whiteboard featuring a moveable arrow, a half-moon that reads “corporate” on one side and “renegade” on the other: the WESU-OMETER. As the board debates and discusses radio business in its weekly meetings, whoever is closest to the dial has the liberty to shift the arrow as they see fit: towards renegade if we’re sticking to our non-commercial values, towards corporate if we think we’re crossing a line we’ve set for ourselves as an alternative voice.

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ON GRIEVING PART II

Grief is not a commonplace feeling. It’s not universally known, like “happy” or “sad” or “angry.” As you grow older, you come to know more and more people who have felt grief; one by one family members pass on, tragic accidents and unfortunate events and surprises occur, and you and your friends come to understand the meaning of loss and how it affects the mind in seemingly irrational ways. But for now, when you are young at a place like Wesleyan, grief is relatively unknown, or at least not talked about.

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I AM NOT WHAT I AM


"I can’t. I can’t argue with that because what that means is that people don’t understand. It means that people nod their heads and say, “yes that must be so difficult yes recovery wow sounds hard.”  And it is, yes! It is hard! But understanding doesn’t end there. Understanding means being conscious of the fact that so many people on this campus suffer with mental disorders, and CAPS has a waiting list and sometimes people need help that day, and CAPS isn’t even that helpful, and some people don’t even know they have these problems and they suffer in silence. It means that telling me I’ve “been looking good and thin” lately isn’t a compliment. It means that telling me I’m “overreacting—just relax” isn’t helpful. It means telling me that I’m “acting crazy” genuinely makes me feel crazy. Understanding means being careful with your words and offering support based on how your friend needs support—let them tell you what they need. If I say I don’t want a dessert in Usdan that night, don’t tell me I “deserve it.” Don’t ask me why I’m depressed because the answer is that I’m in a depressive episode right now and actually, no, there’s nothing you can do to help except for maybe not telling me to just “get over it.”"

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ON COLLEGE ADDICTION

It is around seven forty­-five when James exits the church, fifteen minutes following the ending of his meeting. He is washed out into the darkness along with a wave of men and women, most of whom are chattering excitedly, while a few remain contemplatively, yet joyously silent. Many are digging through their pockets for cigarettes and lighters, or expectantly extending hands for shaking to those who still haven’t found their cartons and keys.      

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ON CHILD ABUSE

We later found out that the fox was rabid, but I swear it was human for those few minutes.  It attacked the carcass as though they had a blood feud. The messiness seemed personal.  We only watched for a minute until my mother found us gawking.  That night, I had ghastly dreams of decapitated bunnies holding their heads in their paws.  I had to sleep with my parents for a month and a half.  Christine was completely fine.

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