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Like many of us here, I rage every Saturday. Once 6 p.m. rolls around, I grab dinner with a couple of my friends and then head off for a series of escapades, often stretching into the wee hours of the night. In the interest of transparency, however, I should let you know it is not me, per se, who is raging, but rather my level 12 dwarf-barbarian — he wields a greathammer, name of Einar.
’Twas the very witching hour of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes contagion into the world. No, we are not Prince Hamlet, but his words (and some gentle nudging from our editors) drove us into the Dartmouth College Cemetery like Young Goodman Browns to witness the debauchery of students in this labyrinth of death.
On a Friday night in the fall of 2012, many of the incoming freshmen were taking their first stroll down Webster Avenue, taking their turns checking out the Greek houses during their introduction to campus. For some, it was an exhilarating time — maybe a little scary. Yet the first few weeks of college are a time for reinvention, and it’s no secret that many students enjoy the opportunity to create new identities for themselves after stepping off the coach.
As someone who’s in her third year at the College, I like to think I know my way around the various buildings on campus pretty well. The views from the top of Fairchild Hall are incredible. Thayer Dining Hall is beautiful and has the most delicious frozen yogurt on campus. The patio at the Top of the Hop is the underrated second cousin of the Collis porch. The basement of the Fayerweather Halls is the best dorm basement unless you’re a freshman obsessed with The Cellar. The most wonderful thing about all these spaces is that they’re open to everyone. This week, though, in the interest of writing a story on privacy, I decided to get into some of the most guarded spaces on campus — the more intimidating the sign on the door, the better.
I’m on the Dartmouth Coach, headed to Rhode Island to turn up and see Waka Flocka Flame. Just up and to the right of me, a couple of what I can only suppose are West Lebanon highschoolers sit together, canoodling with tremendous intensity. This would not perturb me in normal circumstances, great lover of love that I am, except that the only love I love is love exercised in good taste. This activity, which has persisted uninterrupted through the 10 minutes I have spent flipping between writing this paragraph and looking up synonyms for revolting, has nothing lovely to it at all. I cannot see the girl involved, but the angle at which she has positioned herself leaves the neon pink soles of her sneakers pointed straight up at the ceiling. The laces of her shoes are immaculate white and tied in perfect symmetry. They look like they just came out of the box. Either they did, or she is one of the people who puts a lot of effort into keeping her punk-style shoes in a state of extreme cleanliness, a habit I regard with extreme suspicion. The boy involved, whose bowl cut is perhaps even cleaner than his partner’s shoestrings, is wearing a large shirt with the words “TO BE CONTINUED” printed on the back. I am having difficulty discerning what that phrase could signify in the context of clothing.
Netflix is releasing a new show called “Fuller House,” a “Full House” (1987) sequel set to feature the new American family. Whether this will include a same-sex marriage or obese individuals, I do not know. On that note, can we please discuss the California woman who ate a 13-pound steak dinner complete with salad, shrimp cocktail and baked potato? This story certainly invoked sweet memories of the Murphy’s cowboy steak “for two.” Bring it back, Nigel!
The first week of a partnership is delicate. Our working relationship was almost shot when Maddie proposed running an entire article on Taylor Swift. Charlie disagreed so vehemently that for once in his life, he was incapable of emitting a single sound.
14 —The number of private colleges in New Hampshire
I have a lot of opinions but want to keep my name private. What should I do?
One evening in September 2010, Collis Common Ground was packed with people. Students and adults alike ambled about, scrutinizing the individual flags of various countries that served as centerpieces on the round tables scattered throughout the room.
In the fall 2008, under the strong urging of my middle school pals, I made a Facebook page. For seven years, it remained my only form of social media — my only window into the superfluities and quirks of good friends and mere acquaintances. Last week I stepped up my game. In a fit of uncharacteristic fury I signed away my soul to Twitter and Instagram to experience what it might be like to experience my self-worth dribble away to be replaced by likes, comments, shares and retweets.
Tell The Mirror a secret:
Here's what you said.
As children we are asked to share all the time. We’re asked to share toys with our friends, clothes with our younger siblings and tents with our fellow campfire scouts. As college students, however, we are rarely asked to share anything but a one-room double. We’ve got our own computers and our own sneakers — everything we need to be completely self-sufficient so that we don’t have to share with anyone unless we want to. This week I’m asking people to do just that, to share a little bit of themselves.
Thou shalt not commit tripcest. Thou shalt not commit floorcest. Thou shalt not commit Writing 5-cest.
I went to a really good high school. I know this because when I look up my high school on any of the websites that rank high schools and say which ones are the best, these websites all agree my high school is one of the best. Statistics and algorithms don’t lie. I know this because I don’t understand how statistics or algorithms work, and — as life has repeatedly impressed upon me — anything I don’t understand is probably smarter than me and also probably true.
You can run, you can hide, but you just can’t avoid the 2016 presidential election hype. Joining fellow senators Rand Paul (love that he works those curls just like yours truly) and Ted Cruz, Marco Rubio has entered the ring. In fact, Rubio is in New Hampshire today! Let’s go find him!
Mirror readers, Mirror readers, the end of your agony approaches!
Sharing is caring, right?Wrong. While there are definitely some things that are good to share, there are many things you should keep to yourself. For starters, you should never share needles. Other things you probably shouldn’t share include razor blades, clickers, bequests, mascara, drinks, passwords, toothbrushes and headphones.