It was the summer of 2004 and I was mere days from closing on an apartment in Montreal’s McGill Ghetto. I was doing everything I could to tell myself that it was fine to leave New York, even though the city was the place where I had changed everything that had plagued my high school years.
Sheldon grew up in a broken home. The New York Post reported earlier this week that his father is currently locked up in a New York prison and that he ran away from his mother while residing in Florida.
When Tilly and the Wall broke into their rebellious “Nights of the Living Dead,” I suddenly found myself in the midst of enraged high school kids “all fucked-up, touching each other, oh my god.” As much as I love the song, I couldn’t wait for it to end.
Earlier this week, I was set to write a nice pro-free speech story concerning the stupidity of the Columbia College Student Council’s position regarding juicycampus.com.
Two weeks ago, four recent Columbia graduates calling themselves Vampire Weekend moved 24,780 units of their self-titled debut album.
On Sunday night, somewhere between the instant messages from Giants fans, the few hundred unstudied Spanish index cards, and the eight or so unread articles for the next two days’ worth of seminars, I grew hungry. It was pushing three in the morning, and the halftime pizza had worn off.
So, we couldn’t even make it to the first day of the semester before someone caught the nasty hate virus somewhere in our venerable community. On Monday, so-called sexist graffiti was found on the sixth floor of Barnard’s Hewitt Hall.
May 23, 11:57am
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