The main reason I try not to surf the web in class is privacy. I don’t want people behind me to know that the only person who ever chats me online is Sara Silver (my mom).

I propose starting an organization called “Best of Penn” to offer informal coffee chats with the best professors who are willing to spare an hour.

I want to see sexual health on the NSO calendar. But, is that too extreme? Is that something we as a community are unwilling to face, since unlike alcohol, the threats to health from sex are often less conspicuous?

This August, along with reminding me to ignore the liberals and to enjoy Penn State, my family members and neighbors advised me to avoid the “bad parts of town.”

During the beginning of each school year, we are all involved in making sure freshmen know what’s what on campus. We want them to know about our club, our major, our leadership opportunities. Yet most of us don’t know half of what occurs at Penn.

While the media and politicians attempt to convince us that we live in a post-racial society, the truth is, self-segregation persists and is a natural instinct.

I have more in common with a moderate Christian than any Muslim radical who proposes violence.

Many people believe that the playing field is leveled once students get to college, but in reality, inequality persists.

Trying to get on top of your schoolwork? Take your books out. You don’t have to read them. Just open them up. Trying to catch up on email? Respond to one. See what happens.

Although the formalities of the old still echo the halls of the convention — there are voice votes, motions and even a gavel — it is no longer a place for a party to pick a nominee.

We rationalize away uncomfortable facts by thinking that if a lot of people think something is okay, then it must be okay.

Even with Dr. Franklin’s heart and Mr. Huntsman’s wallet, Penn should remember that it cannot not save West Philadelphia on its own.

Don’t just be a passerby on Locust Walk, that will only increase your chances of suffering a mid-college-life crisis.

Living in Philadelphia has pushed me further outside of my comfort zone than most of my classes at Penn have.

I don’t want to know how much Romney’s horse cost. I don’t care to read Obama’s Occidental transcripts. I don’t have a particular interest in Michelle Obama’s shoe size.

The amount of almost-waving, half- smiling and awkward eye-contacting I see around campus every day is absurd.

If there ever was a part of American democracy that a newly enfranchised democrat should see, this is it.