It was a gray size 40 that draped down below my knees. In fact, there was no need for pants. What should have been a tight-fitting, European designer suit looked more like a parka on my six-year-old frame. It became our routine.
It was a gray size 40 that draped down below my knees. In fact, there was no need for pants. What should have been a tight-fitting, European designer suit looked more like a parka on my six-year-old frame. It became our routine.
It was a gray size 40 that draped down below my knees. In fact, there was no need for pants. What should have been a tight-fitting, European designer suit looked more like a parka on my six-year-old frame. It became our routine.
Twenty-six days are all that separate this writer from joining the hallowed ranks of Dartmouth's alumni network.
There exist few decisive processes in our society that are more opaque and arbitrary than elite college admissions.
Over the past three years, Student Assembly has continued on an embarrassing march towards irrelevancy.
T-minus 73 days. After 11 terms, 33 classes and the greatest three-plus years of my life, the end is shockingly near.
I am convinced there is an epidemic at Dartmouth: there must be some medical explanation for how some of the nation's brightest students transform into Neanderthals each and every Friday around 8 p.m.
Through watching my sibling go through the 2008 edition of the college crapshoot, it has become clear to me that I could not get in to Dartmouth with today's admissions metrics.
Blacks do drugs. Women cry. White men hate everyone. Generalizations like these plague American culture incessantly.