Rachel del Valle
I always used to say that it didn’t matter that I was better suited to a go-kart than a real car because I’d live in a city.
One of my idealized markers of maturity is the ability to give meaningful, interesting presents to people I love. Right now, I’m not really there.
As you may or may not have already heard, the Oxford Dictionaries Word of the Year is “selfie.”
It seems that, especially on a college campus, reading for pleasure has become a rare activity.
I used to dislike the commercialization, the overeagerness surrounding the “Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” But now I see that maybe it’s not such a bad thing.
There’s more of a symbiotic relationship between the highs and lows of temperament than most people recognize. It’s not so much a dichotomy as a continuum.
I’m smart, but I still like to read mindless things every once in a while.
Lately, I’ve come to think that one of the most valuable things you can give someone is your undivided attention.
We spend a lot of time with the figments of writers’ imaginations, sometimes forgetting that that’s what they are.
One of the rules I used to have for myself was that I’d never see a therapist. I thought that therapy was self-indulgent, excessive, the stuff of Woody Allen movies and not something you do in real life. But that changed two weeks ago.
I have a theory that the student body of Penn is composed of maybe 30 percent introverts, and of that 30 percent, about half of those spend their first few years trying to pretend they’re extroverts like everyone else.
Acting like a real person means, essentially, acting like a grown-up, an adult. But it doesn’t have the same, sad, unexciting connotation as those other terms.
In most situations, hugs are an inordinately intimate greeting. Sometimes I find myself in the grasp of a hug with someone who I’d never even had a one-on-one conversation with.
I always wanted to move to New York City. Ironically, now that I’m at the age where moving to New York on my own is a possibility, I’m coming up with more cons than pros.
I do keep a journal, sort of. I can look back on it with minimal discomfort, and I don’t have to search through memorabilia boxes to find it. It’s my Facebook profile.
I don’t understand why it’s laughable that girls want to hang out with a bunch of other girls and drink and not get dressed up and just chill. That sounds a lot like bro culture to me, but no one writes articles blaming bros for declining marriage rates.
To huff and puff every time a woman is noted for both her beauty as well as her brains only reinforces the double standard females face in reaching positions of power. So what if someone says she’s pretty? Get over it.
There’s an unavoidable, nettling sense of superficiality that comes with mentally aligning yourself with a certain life — or in my case, lives.
Because sometimes you don’t actually have that much to do. At the end of every horrible week, there’s a calm, and you can either choose to embrace it or unnecessarily stress yourself out about the next thing.
So every once in a while, it’s a bit jarring to pause and realize that I’m living in 2013, in the United States, with a biracial president — and there’s still a current of latent prejudice everywhere.