Anna Lokey

Writing this column for a year was just an elaborate ploy to get a Senior Wisdom, which I did not, in fact, get. Let’s unpack that.

If you’ve been on social media lately, I’m sure you’ve been bombarded by an onslaught of posts by horny seniors. I’ve seen more UNIs on my phone screen in the past three days than in my entire Columbia experience. And that includes all the times y’all idiots tried to unsubscribe from emails by replying all.

In February, I attended a Galentine’s Day celebration. For those of you who are uncultured: Galentine’s Day is like Valentine’s Day, except no men are allowed. It’s so nice to act like we live in a sis-ciety. And it’s the only dinner all year where everyone has enough leg space and nobody gets rudely interrupted.

Picture this: You’re walking into Butler 209. Your athleisure groutfit is on fleek. Everyone and their mom is going to notice your perky butt when you get up every 22 minutes to refill your water bottle. You sit at your table of choice. Bonus points if you arrange your coat, Ferris Bueller style, to look like a person with their head down crying in the seat across from you. You take a deep breath to center yourself before the academic onslaught begins and immediately choke on the poisonous cloud of body odor, farts, and death that is circling around your head.

East Campus is a death trap. Living here is also dope as shit. Let’s unpack that.

Laura Salgado is a senior in Columbia College studying political science. Despite her younger self’s fondest hopes, she will be $elling out to Corporate America after graduation. She loves all things related to emo culture, corgis, and Thai food. She’s the former Deputy Editorial Page Editor for Columns but this semester, she’s looking forward to expressing all the opinions she had to hold back for the past few years. Stay tuned for hot takes on Columbia fashion, identity politics, and mental health in minority groups. Send hate mail or your favorite memes to her via Twitter @im_deplaurable or email laura.a.salgado@columbia.edu. A Pinch of Salt runs alternate Mondays.

It’s 2019. Tinder is no longer new or cool. The discourse surrounding the dating app, as of late, has grown stale: We blame Tinder for our generation’s emotional immaturity, fear of commitment, and lack of communication skills. Most think pieces shockingly conclude that millennials’ obsession with technology has led to the devolution of even the most sacred forms of social ritual: fucking.

My family had a Juul intervention for me during Thanksgiving dinner. You could say that I was asking for it by Juuling during Thanksgiving dinner, but in my defense, my 17-year-old brother had dared me to and I feel like it’s my older sibling duty to prove that I’m no pussy. In fact, it's a categorical imperative.

Let me make one thing clear from the start: I hate Mel’s. Let me also make another thing clear: I go to Mel’s all the damn time. That’s because vitriolically detesting Mel’s is integral to the entire Mel’s experience. If that sounds counterintuitive, that’s because it definitely is. Let’s unpack that.

It’s somewhere between the hours of 2 and 6 a.m. Time has lost all meaning except for the overwhelming feeling that there isn’t enough of it to finish whatever it is you’re supposed to do before the sun rises. The final chords of “Jesus of Suburbia” drone in your ears as you mentally rearrange your thesis, trying to mash together the words “colonialism,” “juxtaposition,” and “hegemony” in a way that doesn’t seem overly forced. You realize you’ve been sitting like this on the toilet for 20 minutes. You don’t even have to pee anymore. Wait... did you already pee? Have you been in here so long that you forgot whether or not you even had to pee to begin with? Intellectually overwhelmed, nic sick, and sleep deprived—you put your head between your knees and stare at the floor until the grimy black-and-white checkered tiles blend together. The smell motivates you to pull up your pants, wipe your tears, and go back to your seat.