Gobble Gobble by Vivian Bowling

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I finally got all my Christmas decorations up. Technically I did it on October 25th which is multiple days before it is considered socially acceptable. Actually, depending on who you talk to, December 1st is the only acceptable day to start decorating for Christmas. November is supposed to be the turkey month. The month of Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is easily my least favorite holiday. I would happily celebrate any holiday before I sat around my table with the same family I see every other weekend and eat dry turkey which makes me feel tired and sad. I grew up in a very small family. It is my immediate family, my aunt, and then my grandma and grandpa. That is it. If seeing family is what makes Thanksgiving a holiday, then every time I drive 10 minutes to my Grans house it’s a holiday. Now you might be thinking, isn’t Christmas the same then? Well, yes, but with eggnog and Mariah Carey it’s significantly better. Thanksgiving is just bland. You eat dressing, as my Kentucky Gran calls it, or stuffing if you are literally anybody but her. Cranberries and yams are practically stuffed down your throat. I hate both of those foods and I really don’t know who decided they were acceptable to be paired with mashed potatoes and dry turkey. The only thing worse than eating these foods on Thanksgiving is having to eat the same foods as leftovers for literally the next week. In elementary school, they told us a most likely false story about pilgrims, made us make hand turkeys and called it a day on the history of the holiday. Yet here we are, still celebrating Thanksgiving. There is not even good music or movies to be paired with this day. Squirrels eat the pumpkin decorations I put out so that’s a waste. Pie is almost drier than turkey so the dessert part sucks just as much as the rest of the day. Alright I think it is understood that I hate this day. Anyways! Happy holidays!

In Memoriam by Anna Welsh

 

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They were a thrift shop find, my jeans. They fit me perfectly. They hit just above my waist and were long enough that I could cuff them if I wanted to, or leave them as is. They were not too skinny, nor were they too loose. I could run in them, lounge in them, actually sit down in them. They had no rips, or stains, and looked perfect with the crewnecks and Air Force Ones I was accustomed to wearing on rotation every day. Every time I wore those jeans, I felt like I was in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

Alongside those jeans, I had my favorite sweatpants. I’d gotten them at a thrift store as well, and they looked brand new. They were a dark, heathered gray, with the words “Boston University” printed on the right side in red block letters. Over the summer, I wore them almost every day. When the school year came around, I would change into them immediately when I got home, craving something comfortable in comparison to my rough jean shorts. Those BU sweatpants fit me better than any other sweatpants I have ever had the pleasure of owning. 

Now, however, both of my treasured pants are gone. I should have known that something so wonderful would only be fleeting. I have searched my house from top to bottom for both of them. My treasured BU sweatpants, where could they have gone? I haven’t seen them in months, yet sometimes I still dig through my closet, hoping that I had missed them when looking before, that they would somehow emerge from that void of blackness that they must have disappeared into. I do the same with my jeans, digging through my brother’s drawers, hoping desperately that they had gotten mixed up with theirs. But, alas, neither of my glorious pants have ever been found. And so I write this post in memory of both of them. 

They were good pants, great pants even. I will have other pants in my life, but none as versatile, none as well-fitted. Other people owned them before me, and maybe other people will own them again, wherever they have gone. Perhaps they will materialize someday, through some kind of divine act. Maybe one day I will be switching the laundry, and there they will be, waiting patiently for me. For now, however, they are lost. All I can do is thank them for their willingness to be overworn and overloved. I am so lucky to have found them and to have owned them. Goodbye, my beloved BU sweatpants and gorgeous blue jeans, goodbye. 

Why the Browns are Better Without Odell Beckham Jr. By Will Welsh

What Odell Beckham Jr. wants in his next NFL team

 

     When Odell Beckham Jr. was traded to Cleveland in March of 2019, Browns fans were overjoyed. Of course they had to give up a rising star in Jabril Peppers and a first and third round draft pick, but that was nothing compared to the debatably most talented wide receiver in the NFL. This was the man that garnered millions of fans from a single catch: the amazing, back bending, gravity defying, one handed grab culminating in a touchdown. The man that had executed the consensus best catch of the 2014 season was coming to Cleveland. 

     In his first season with the Browns, the 2019-2020 campaign, Beckham was a solid contributor. His personal statistics were up to par and he was the leading receiver in several games. This was the only season in Cleveland where Beckham surpassed or even got close to 1,000 yards receiving. Beckham also ended with 4 touchdowns and he had a couple of splash plays that were game defining moments. For example, he had an 87 yard touchdown off of a slant against the Jets that helped the Brown roll to a 23-3 win. Although his personal performance was solid in his first season, he got into some mischief as well. He was sidelined twice for illegal apparel and he was caught arguing with coaches on the sidelines several times. 

     In his second season with the Browns, Beckham had trouble connecting with Baker Mayfield. Apart from one multi-touchdown standout performance against the Cowboys, Beckham was nearly invisible. The star receiver tore his ACL after a pass meant for him was intercepted and he tried to tackle the defender. Without Beckham, Mayfield’s completion percentage shot up and the Browns clinched their first playoff berth in nearly 20 years. 

     In 2021, Beckham was invisible yet again and his best performance was a 77 yard 0 touchdown outing against the Bears. After Beckham was released by the team, Cleveland throttled Cincinnati 41-16 and Mayfield had his best game of the season, hitting Donovan Peoples-Jones on a 60 yard go ahead touchdown and finding the endzone once more with a strike to David Njoku. 

     The events of the past three seasons surely make the case that the Browns are better without Odell Beckham. The team seemed to have more chemistry and success with the star on the bench. Mayfield’s completion percentage and the team’s win percentage increased when Beckham was not involved. With the receiver, the Browns have a losing record of 13-15 and without him they have a record of 8-4. These losses can be partly attributed to quarterback play. Throughout Beckham’s time on the field, Mayfield has thrown 42 touchdowns to 29 interceptions. High chances of turnovers mean low chances of victory. Without Beckham demanding targets, Mayfield cleaned up his act and threw 14 touchdowns to only three interceptions. 

     For some reason, maybe due to chemistry or reputation, Odell Beckham did not fit well with the Cleveland Browns. It was a good college try from both sides, but the facts tell the truth. Cleveland is simply better without Beckham. A nail was driven into the coffin of this argument last Sunday. The Browns beat the Bengals handily and the ball was spread all around the field, with Landry, Peoples-Jones, Njoku, Schwartz, Bryant, Hooper, and Chubb all contributing in the pass game. The Browns’ future is bright with all these young stars. 

 

 

My Most Interesting Halloween Costumes By Rachel Coxon

Halloween was my favorite holiday growing up, and having a creative, homemade costume always made the night more memorable. 

 

In first grade, I was a tree. I don’t know why I was intrigued by this idea, but a ton of work went into that costume. My mom hot-glued over 50 felt leaves onto a jacket and figurines of birds and squirrels covered my shoulders. I wore a floppy hat with a nest perched on the top. As I went door-to-door, I remember a few moms stopping me to ask for a picture. 

 

As a fifth grader, I went as a jack-in-the-box. About an hour before trick-or-treating started, I took a big cardboard box and quickly cut out holes for my limbs and neck and decorated the sides. Unfortunately, the weather had plans of its own that night and pouring rain took to melting away the soggy cardboard. I had to throw the box away halfway through trick-or-treating, but was relieved to drop the weight. 

 

In eighth grade, I was a mime. I painted my face, threw on a beret, and had a blast doing the ‘I’m in a box’ skit throughout the night. 

 

Junior year, my friend and I dressed as members of the Blue Man Group. We painted our faces blue and hauled around recycling bins and PVC pipes the whole night as props. 

The Blue Hour by Maria Krouse

Her hair was always in a chic silver bob. I never saw her without her signature red lip. My beloved neighbor’s home lay nestled beneath the shadow of an elderly giant maple, and like her lips, her door is a vibrant carnation. Her house was neat yet lived in. Her walls are an eerie sage and the floors a creaky hickory. Beside her fireplace rested her favorite of all her pieces. The painting was of a fox burrowed in a hollow as night slowly approached. I was in the home of an artist. Her painting of the dusk scene was one of many. This was her favorite time of night, which she called gloaming. It’s the hour that entrances me – always so still and hypnotizing – when everything looks a different shade of blue tinting the world. Gloaming reminds me of sadness. Yet, it shows how sadness can be beautiful. Night isn’t something to fear but to embrace.

The soft purr of roaring traffic, buzzing amber street lamps, a cricket’s lullaby, and a hauntingly eerie silence between each breath. Night is what gives me hope. I am raptured by its deceiving beauty. Despite how scary and dark it may be, its intimidating manner lures me into its comforting shadow. It is the one excuse not to be doing something. During the day, there are all these expectations to work, to learn, to eat, to converse, to try. Night doesn’t have any expectations of me. It gives me a restart button at the end of the torturous hours of daylight. I love the colors of night. How the bright pastels and piercing brights transform into faint gloomy purples under the smoky haze of sapphire. The neon glare in store fronts and soft auras surrounding tall buildings. Or the sounds, like the hum of a glowing sign or the chorus of starlings at the break of dawn. Or the taste. The taste of a ripe plum or a metallic clove. Or the smell. A peppery aroma of sage and sweat. Or the touch. The warmth of a crackling flame or the cold of whispering wind on wet clothes clinging to blistered skin. Night is something I can always depend on at the end of the day, quite literally.

I can always count on it to soothe my problems. It can remedy the aches and sores of the sun, like a dip in a bubbling creek or a salty cove. I love to close my eyes and transport myself to the rugged coast of northern California. I imagine the inky water exploding into the rocky shoreline. Nothing compares to night at sea. That’s when I truly feel alone and small. Being the only mortal on the mile stretch of sand besides the night spirits or souls from shipwrecks long ago, wandering for eternity to find their lost love. This mythical place I speak of is nestled in the midpoint between gritty San Francisco and remote Eureka. Sea Ranch is a small community of earthy elderly, hermits, and anyone who smiles at the idea of not having to see another human being for days. I don’t have much of a connection to Sea Ranch in particular, but mostly to anything that runs from Santa Cruz to Fort Bragg. Since I was little, I can remember driving along highway one. I can remember looking out the window at the deadly drop into ice cold waters and bewitching fog, all beneath the starry sky that melted into the endless horizon, of course. 

I think night frustrates us. Through the blurry figures, intelligible silhouettes, ghosts, and sounds we can’t identify. But that’s where the beauty lies. Night doesn’t care. It’s the universe trying to tell humans to shut up, slow down, and pause. And I find that to be refreshing, like the crisp frigid air under a harvest moon or the chirring wind in the willow branches at dusk. Whether it be to sleep, to drive, to love, or to explore, I think night gives humans a chance or a mere excuse to find themselves. 

Lost in Berlin By Nora Konrad

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Freedom.

Trains zoomed past me. I tugged at the end of my backpack as I peered up towards a map of Berlin, where I was spending the summer with my aunt and uncle in Germany. I followed the green line to my stop, Buckower Chaussee. The S2 train rumbled forward. I quickly ran through the door and grabbed a seat by the window. With earbuds in and Clairo playing, I watched as the city transformed into trees. Suddenly, the train stopped. It was the end of the route. Passengers drained out. This wasn’t Buckoweer Chaussee! The train never reached my stop!

Lost.

I looked down at my phone. It was useless. I didn’t have a sim card– I couldn’t use Google Maps or call my family, but, conveniently, could play music. In an instant, my brain completely panicked. The earbuds were shoved into my pocket. Suddenly my feet started moving. I was running down the stairs, out to the street, and to the bus stop. Rapidly my eyes scanned down the schedule, looking for the X11 bus. Please, please, please, I prayed, fervently hoping for a solution. My heart dropped– it wasn’t there. I spun around, ran back across the street, up the stairs, and onto the platform. I started pacing. What was I gonna do? In desperation, I bought a Twix bar and began chomping my way through the fear.

Ruin.

Hopelessly I looked up at a sign of incoming trains, and saw the S2 coming! WHAT?! It was a miracle. Apparently, I had gotten onto the wrong line because this train kept going. It kept going all the way to Buckower Chausee.
Relief.

I walked out of the train station and marched myself over to the bus stop. Ten minutes later, the bus arrived. I took out my bus card, then slumped in my seat. The worst was over.
Or so I thought.
Twenty minutes later, the bus driver announced something in German that I didn’t fully understand. I saw police lights out the window. There was an accident. All the passengers filed out of the bus. Oh no.

Lost. Again.

Slowly and dreadfully, I followed the passengers out of the bus. There was an intersection. I had no idea where I was. I looked for a cafe or someplace that might have Wi-fi. I was surrounded by trees, gardens, and a couple of houses.
Hopeless.

I watched the line of people make their way down the street. I looked left, then right. Miserably, I put one foot in front of the other, whimpering down the road. Through heavy steps, my head lifted, and, amazingly, I recognized a brick building and I knew where I was.
Certain.

Earlier that morning, when my aunt dropped me off at the bus station before I went into the city for my classes, she pointed across the street to that very same building. While she instructed me on my route home, I took in the building with no idea that it would become my guidepost.
My pace quickened.

Forward.

Tigger Onesie By Carrington Hughes

As we ease into the Thanksgiving era, I feel it is essential to properly part ways with the Halloween season. To do this, I have dedicated this blog to the Tigger onesie costume I spent nearly $40 dollars on and will probably never wear again.

Dear Tigger onesie,

Where do I even start? Since the first time I laid eyes on you I knew we were meant to be. After my beloved friend suggested we do a part

ner costume, I knew immediately that your were the right choice. Sure, you and Winnie were a good match, but we were even better. You made me feel so youthful during my 10 minutes of trick or treating. You gathered such a large fan-base and being followed by a group of 3 year old’s was truly the highlight of my night. I know how much it hurt when that one demonic child called you Mickey Mouse but I promise you they didn’t mean it. I need you understand how much I enjoyed the 5 hours we spent together. As an HL economics students, I can confidently say that you were the best $40 I’ve ever spent. Will you be spending the next year in a storage closet? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I love you any less.

Sincerely,

Carrington <3

Halloween Nostalgia by Claire Borden

 

I love Halloween.

I love dressing up, carving pumpkins, eating candy, and feeling that shiver go up my spine. But for the past few years, this time of year has come with a twinge of sadness, as well as excitement, because I have lost that feeling of childhood wonder that used to make the holiday so much fun.

I used to start preparing weeks in advance, going to the Halloween store with my mom, and planning my costume. I have always been a homemade costume kind of person, the more elaborate the better. I remember one year I made Michael Jackson’s Thriller jacket out of duct tape. The weekend before Halloween, my neighbors and I would get together and start planning our route to hit as many houses as possible. I remember that feeling of excitement when evening would start to roll around and I would put on my costume (with extra layers), and get my pillow case ready.

My neighborhood felt like a different universe, with everyone disguised, spooky music playing, the dark lit up by Jack-o-lanterns and decorations. I loved seeing everyone’s costumes, and getting compliments on my own, and doing daring things, emboldened by my costume. Halloween magic made anything possible. My favorite part of the night, however, was going back to my house with all my neighbors, pouring out our haul on my living room floor, and trading for our favorite candy. I not only miss those traditions, but I miss being able to get so excited about something so simple. It’s not that I don’t dress up, get scared, or eat tons of candy on Halloween anymore, but it no longer feels like magic. I know that this is part of growing up, but it still makes me a little sad.

I guess I will have to find new traditions to get excited about, and of course, recreate the magic for my own kids in the future. 

Appreciate the Talkers and Why I Love Music by Jaimee Martin

My name is Jaimee, I am a talker and I love music.

I love to talk about myself and my life, about the world around me, and my analysis of it. All of this is to say I want to present a monthly music review to you but to get there, I have to start with the talking and my musical background – sorry (not sorry).

So it all starts when I got an MP3 for Christmas from my oldest, adultest sister, Jenna. It was incredibly special to me because I was 6-years-old and this wasn’t just any music player, it was the hottest technology in the game – Apple. Before that moment the only exposure I had to music was listening to my mom’s vintage rock n’ roll on the TV music channels and in the car ride I made twice each weekend to stay with Jenna in Columbia, Missouri; My mom didn’t own a car, so Top 40 radio stations for 90 minutes a week was invaluable.

 

Obviously, after Christmas day was over, and my extended family was gone, I had no idea how to work my prized iPod Nano 5 – I mean I was simultaneously slightly no longer a toddler and independent to a fault. I frequently resorted to simply pressing buttons until the magic happened which got me two songs; These two songs became my world of music. I would listen to Bruno Mars’ Grenade and Eminem’s Love the Way You Lie ft. Rihanna on repeat every day, without end – I would never get sick of it. Of course, as a 1st grader I wasn’t walking around school with my headphones in and my hood up all day, so the biggest time when I got to use my iPod was right when I got home.

I would calmly step off the bus and walk towards my apartment until I knew the kids still on it were out of sight, before excitedly sprinting the rest of the way, already fixated on the afternoon of rollerskating and music that awaited me. Despite the “always running out of time” attitude I had, I would often spend hours just skating around the building sidewalks and gliding through the parking lot. The words and probably inappropriate themes of both songs felt so personal and uniquely mine as if those moments alone each day listening to them was truly a time where I got to be with myself (and occasionally imaginary friends who were always much older and cooler than me). I had this sense of peace and connectedness to my emotions, that despite being unable to understand then, I see now as my innate passion for music.

Art and music was like a seed I was born with that innately knew to grow inside me. It truly does feel like my life and identity, my intelligence and feelings. Today to listen to all genres of music and hundreds of artists – everything from pop to new york drill, R&B to classical, alternative to Broadway musicals. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that musicality is my biggest passion and I genuinely get lost and stressed without it.

I’m gonna be deep and vulnerable because if you haven’t caught on yet, I feel things very big and intensely. So here’s the real truth:

Music’s not only this piece of my soul, it’s my coping mechanism through life in general and all of the mental health disorders that come with it. I can’t count the number of times a song or an artist has brought me back from an edge, or simply allowed me to feel that edge, feel my sadness. The way of instruments and poetry alone, not even considering them together is song, is so powerful that I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s almost become a core belief that words and sound hold the meaning of life for me. In a way, I feel as though I can’t ever really express what any of the former do for me, especially in this introduction.

Nonetheless, I hope you see my point. I hope I’m giving you a glimpse into my perspective and you can know me through music. That’s kind of the whole goal – I plan to bring a slice of my musical intake to you by reviewing my favorite songs each month. And don’t be mistaken, it’s just as much for the readers as it is for me the writer; I want you to get a feel for the songs, but I also just want to put myself on the page. I’ll connect with you in words on all of the music, maybe classics, new releases, obscure, mainstream, old, or anything in between.

P.S. the posts will be much shorter (hopefully, maybe if I can cut down the talking possibly)

Triplet Experiences by Sonali Khatri

Growing up as a triplet, you have some pretty unique experiences.

 

Here’s a list of a few:

1. Learning how to drive
This experience nearly traumatized me. Our dad would take us out at eight in the morning and we’d get back by noon. All three of us. In the car. For three to four hours. Weekly. 

It was really bad in the beginning when we were just starting out. One of us would be driving and the other two would be sitting in the back, completely putting our lives into our other sister’s hands. There was nothing scarier than when our dad would ask for the sister behind the wheel to check the blindspot and the car would start veering into the next lane unintentionally. Or when one of us would make a sudden turn that made the wheels screech and our faces press against the side of the window. I could go on … there were some pretty close calls. 

Thankfully we can all drive now, but those 150 hours of fear and boredom were rough.

2. Telepathy

I know this is a cliché but sometimes we literally finish each other’s sentences. Occasionally we’ll even answer a question in unison which is freaky.

3. Trying to be your own person and … failing successfully

Something we always wanted was to be known as individual people and not a unit. We all tried to establish our unique identities: different styles, different interests, different opinions, etc. but in the end, we still end up liking the same things which can sometimes lead to issues. For example:

4. The shopping dilemma

Without fail every time we go shopping one of us will end up picking up something and a second later one of us will say something along the lines of “wait, I wanted that!” Then you have to go through the painful clothing negotiation (will we end up sharing, will we have to get two, or will we both leave empty-handed). Most of the time we end up sharing but not too long ago these negotiations would end in tears.

5. Birthdays

It’s not your day, it’s OUR day. Everything has to be a unanimous decision when it comes to our birthdays. From the cake, to where we go to dinner, etc.

6. The test pass back

We’ve gone through all the same classes together and we know that it’s inevitable that one of us will have the highest score and one of us will have the lowest. It used to get to us, but now we just make the person with the highest score helps with corrections.

7. Feeling like a part of yourself is missing

I remember when my sister went on the band trip for 10 days we felt so lost. It was especially bad because she was the one that usually broke up the fights between us. So college should be interesting …