Op-Ed: I Wish I Were a Woman So My Voice Could Be Less Influential
She can say absolutely anything and we will be none the wiser, because no one listens to women.
She can say absolutely anything and we will be none the wiser, because no one listens to women.
What a quarter this has been. From late nights ripping my hair out behind a bookshelf in Core, to late nights ripping my hair out in the corner of the quiet section in Mudd, I truly feel like I’ve reached the limit of what I’m going to accomplish at Northwestern. This has all brought me to one conclusion: I could die and nothing on this campus would change. If I got rolled over by a steam roller, I’d just be
Wood frame, metal blade, disgruntled French hangman. Back in the days of the French Revolution, these were the three things you needed to kill someone, all compiled into one machine: the guillotine. But the extinction of the guillotine isn’t just about the advancement of weaponry; it is clearly indicative of a more serious problem in society: people these days don’t support blue-collar jobs, and so we need to bring back the guillotine. In the time of the guillotine, killing someone
While the snow, accelerated by the wind, stabbed me over and over again in the eyes this week, I realized one thing: Northwestern needs a tunnel.
Kinda got me thinking: “What if he just wasn’t alive anymore?”
The difference is for me it’s still true, and I’m extremely popular and good-looking as well.
Dear Flippington, If you haven’t noticed, it’s that time of year again. All the high schoolers are lining up like lambs to the slaughter to visit our wonderful campus. But they don’t know the horrors. Those guides won’t tell them about the last-minute dining hall crowds at 7, they won’t tell them about the religious zealots on Sheridan that try to trick you into giving them your soul through free coffee, and they sure as hell won’t tell them that
I don’t condone violence. I don’t condone breaking traffic rules. But I do condone following honor codes typically used by children.
It flashes before my eyes. A streak of gray, a small chittering sound, and a set of wide eyes entice me. My mouth waters, soaks in anticipation. I must eat. The hunger consumes me, ravages my body. I am as ravenous as a skeleton waiting for its next indigestible meal. I lock eyes with the creature, my prey. It chomps on its acorn, daring me to bite. Oh squirrel, I must devour you! The sumptuous squirrels on this campus are
“On that note,” Mr. Freely continued, “I must admit the depiction of Harley Quinn, especially the breast to waist ratio, was done perfectly. I had a hard-on the whole film!”