Statement

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“Comparison robs you of joy.” It is an old adage that I shouldn't have forgotten when I walked away from myself for a boy.

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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.

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I am a constellation of contradictions. I eat vanilla and chocolate ice cream, often mixing the two together or finding a flavor somewhere in between.

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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.

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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.

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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”).

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Whenever I realize I need a haircut, it always takes me a few days to get around to booking it.

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If I have two things to thank for introducing me to the heavenly spirit that is Connie Converse, they are Spotify’s Discover Weekly algorithm and The New Yorker.

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Dear Friends and Family,