If you felt disappointed upon your initial arrival to Swarthmore this fall because you witnessed far fewer Parrish Beach hangouts than the admissions literature had advertised, you’re probably right to feel this way. I don’t have any data on the matter, but
If Valentine’s Day is a celebration of romantic love and affection, then Screw Your Roommate — a celebration of the awkward, the flirtatious, the unknown, the sexually tense — is an apt precursor. Most relationships, particularly at Swarthmore, are necessarily preceded by
If Valentine’s Day is a celebration of romantic love and affection, then Screw Your Roommate — a celebration of the awkward, the flirtatious, the unknown, the sexually tense — is an apt precursor. Most relationships, particularly at Swarthmore, are necessarily preceded by an
I am always humbled and amused by how quickly my fall finals-induced hatred of Swarthmore transforms into a being-at-home-sucks-inspired love of the same. Such is our toxic love affair with this ridiculous college: can’t live with it, can’t live without it. Home
I’ve never been inside the Matchbox, barring a single foray into its second floor last year to attend a storytelling event. This first and only venture involved me standing in the Matchbox’s entrance vestibule for an extended period of time because I
I grew up in Miami, Florida. The music scene, if you can even call it that, is uninspired. Nothing in Miami exists that is analogous to the underground house show scenes of Philly or Brooklyn or Portland or some other hip American
From what I can tell, institutional memory at Swarthmore lasts like, four seconds. Unless you really drill the upperclassmen or do some hardcore Phoenix digging, the most you will probably pick up about Swarthmore’s recent history by passively existing here is that
I had planned to get drunk at Disorientation in order to best immerse myself in its local culture so that my account of the event be made as authentic as possible. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of Disorienting myself a day ahead
This past summer marks my eighth and last at the same Jewish sleepaway camp tucked in the Catoctin mountains of Pennsylvania. When I left for home at the end of two exhausting months as a counselor, I wasn’t sad to go. For
