I’ve had very little experience with love. But I have seen enough romantic comedies starring Ryan Gosling and have listened enough songs by Rex Orange County and Frank Ocean to at least know that Love is a complicated emotion.
As long as I can remember, and perhaps even before, I have been a hopeless romantic. I had my first crush on a girl when I was three; when I was eight, I still had a crush on her and reflected this by giving her a pair of earrings that my mom helped me make.
Films are meant to, among other things, transport their audience. It is an art form with the ability to invite viewers to spend a night in the humid Hong Kong air, heavy with stolen glances and stolen spouses.
This past summer, I found out that my Bursley Residence Hall housing assignment had been moved from a mixed-gender hall to a same-gender hall. It really wasn’t a big deal — I knew it might happen and I still had a decent room.
Everyone remembers the kid who sat next to you in high school and conveniently turned his head toward your Scantron to “cough” during an exam. Even worse are the ones who peer pressured you into letting them copy the entirety of your homework.
A 21-year-old man and my childhood friend, whom we will call “X,” had a serious girlfriend for two years in college, and was very happy with her (evident in his Instagram feed with recurring captions: “Grateful for my best friend”).