Snood. The word itself is unthreatening and innocent, and it brings to mind only happy things. "Food," for instance and "dude" (let's ignore "lewd" for now). Even the game seems harmless at first, before the tendrils of addiction creep into the mind like the roots of some sort of bloodthirsty plant.
"Do we have to go?” one of my classmates asked a few weeks ago. I begrudgingly got my books together and left class to attend yet another mandatory assembly dreamed up by Blair's administration, an event otherwise known as a pep rally.
Herein, the columnist is offered a coveted space in a practice session for Blair's highly esteemed It's Academic! team, tries to prove the superiority of her mental strength and learns the futility of such an endeavor.
I have always believed that the Metro is more than just a means of transportation. It is not the sticky plastic seats or the mysterious green liquid pooling under the tracks that draws me again and again to this national wonder. No, I come for the commuters themselves. Whether they are tall or short, young or old, sane or decidedly deranged, people from all over our area cram into Metro cars every day for one reason: so that I can make fun of them.
A few weeks ago, I opened my favorite newspaper (Silver Chips, of course) and was horrified to find the ludicrous ranting of a clearly delusional journalist. Eliot Stein, previously just your average, sub-par student, had gotten it into his head that it's better to be a boy than a girl. Well, the darkness of seething anger engulfed me at this point, and when my thoughts cleared I found this piece on my computer screen. I hope it was me who actually wrote it.
"Do we have to go?” one of my classmates asked a few weeks ago. I begrudgingly got my books together and left class to attend yet another mandatory assembly dreamed up by Blair's administration, an event otherwise known as a pep rally.