Finding your niche on the Homewood campus
Cold has come to Hopkins. The homeless man who wears all gray has whipped out his matching gray hat. Christmas has already come to the Right Aid (even though Thanksgiving is still just around the corner) in the form of twinkle lights and stocking stuffers. And, of course, the Hopkins campus has become even more reclusive than usual, its total number of hermits reaching 70 percent, a record for mid-November.
Then again, Hopkins isn't ever really the greatest place to meet new people. With our apartment-like dorms and toxic social scene, it's a wonder anyone makes new friends after freshman year. It's strange to think that while I'm living out the Suite Life of Emma Brodie over here in the Charles Commons, there are other kids who live on my floor whom I've never met before; hell, there are kids here I've never seen before.
Just the other day I was going to throw our pumpkins, Jack and Carva, down the garbage shoot (which I recommend to anyone who is into satisfying crunches, weird sounds and/ or innovative anger management) and I saw two guys I'd never seen before carrying a television down the hall. While I suspected foul play, I decided to play it cool, having left my rape whistle in my room (if you're reading this, know that I'm on to you.)
To give my R.A. some credit, she is constantly trying to encourage inter-floor community.
The problem is, I just don't have time to eat cake with people I don't know. And although I really did want to go to that seminar on herbal remedies and make lotion with a bunch of strangers, that 13-page poli-sci paper wasn't going to write itself.
However, while I may not be the most receptive resident, my R.A. should know that I hear her message for floor mingling loud and clear and am always reminded of it whenever I walk past that box of condoms taped to her board. She should also know that while my attendance for these events has not been high in the past, I can be bribed, particularly with toilet paper (I'm sorry but two rolls a week just doesn't cut it for a four-woman suite).
Then again, Hopkins isn't ever really the greatest place to meet new people. With our apartment-like dorms and toxic social scene, it's a wonder anyone makes new friends after freshman year. It's strange to think that while I'm living out the Suite Life of Emma Brodie over here in the Charles Commons, there are other kids who live on my floor whom I've never met before; hell, there are kids here I've never seen before.
Just the other day I was going to throw our pumpkins, Jack and Carva, down the garbage shoot (which I recommend to anyone who is into satisfying crunches, weird sounds and/ or innovative anger management) and I saw two guys I'd never seen before carrying a television down the hall. While I suspected foul play, I decided to play it cool, having left my rape whistle in my room (if you're reading this, know that I'm on to you.)
To give my R.A. some credit, she is constantly trying to encourage inter-floor community.
The problem is, I just don't have time to eat cake with people I don't know. And although I really did want to go to that seminar on herbal remedies and make lotion with a bunch of strangers, that 13-page poli-sci paper wasn't going to write itself.
However, while I may not be the most receptive resident, my R.A. should know that I hear her message for floor mingling loud and clear and am always reminded of it whenever I walk past that box of condoms taped to her board. She should also know that while my attendance for these events has not been high in the past, I can be bribed, particularly with toilet paper (I'm sorry but two rolls a week just doesn't cut it for a four-woman suite).
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