Feel angry about final clubs. But don’t stop there. Because each of us is immersed in the big historical shit-show of this campus, and its big historical triumphs.
Beer is gross. My editors, it turns out, are also gross, as they have decided to devote an entire issue of our magazine to it. But I am a communist, and thus oriented towards taking one for the team. As an act of protest, however, and because I do not believe in market economies/have $13 in my bank account, I am only reviewing the beer I manage to get for free: at parties, and, in an act of virtuosic mooching, from my roommate’s supply. It’s not pretty, but neither is late capitalism.
Harvard students like to multitask. I am a Harvard student. I’ve also been meaning to hang out with this cool chick. So I asked myself: why not murder two innocent winged creatures with one proverbial projectile? Our panel of judges: Me. My roommate. The Queer Crush I’ve been eyeing in Adams dining hall who has enthusiastically consented to appear in this article. Welcome to the four dollar wine date.
How did our surroundings suggest the ways we could or could not be, the things we could or could not say?
This week, a feat of daring and potential product endorsement: the Charles Shaw challenge. Three different bottles of “the world famous” $2.99 whites. One different me. “Charles Shaw” corrects to “Charles shame” on my iPhone.
There are a lot of bars in Harvard Square that serve decent glasses of prosecco and interesting cocktails for around ten bucks a pop, which is cute, considering I’ll have to start repaying student loans in a year if I don’t get into grad school. For this reason, FM is giving the people what they want: the best cheap wines of Harvard Square, reviewed by a seasoned early twenty-something casual drinker with no specialty knowledge of alcohol whatsoever. Have at me.
Travellers are too often tricked into thinking that the authentic of a place its in its orthodox, its normative.
There is the harsh pleasure of rain, and that of almost raining.
The heat is the third party in every love affair this summer, the dark horse candidate in all politics.
By now even the literature professors are hoping the humanities will just kick the bucket already so we can finish talking about them.
If I want to be a serious lady power player, I’m going to need to purchase a blazer. It’s going to be black or navy blue, it’s going to cinch at the waist and flair at the hips, and, damn it, it’s going to get me taken seriously.
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