Below are your search results. You can also try a Basic Search.
You could tell that Jessica wasn’t that impressed with the tickets, but at least she didn’t threaten to break up with you if you didn’t bring her Dim Sum takeout last night. Plus, she actually promised to go with you, so that’s gotta count for something, right?
Jessica scoffs. “Fuck off.” She waves her hand in the air to shoo you away.
Brad freezes. He leaves Jessica’s arms, and gently, ever so gently, he gives your face a gentle caress. “What’s taken you so long to say it?” Brad asked, his eyes looking as if they were pools of love and wild joy.
It’s the only food you’re likely gonna get for a while, so you decide to pop it in your mouth and let it melt on your tongue to really let it last. For some inexplicable reason, you start to feel absolutely euphoric. You feel like you’re on top of a mountain and at last can see everything clearly — as it was meant to be seen. Everything is just one Big Love. Everyone Loves Everyone. You love Life, you love Jessica, and fucking hell, you even love Brad.
Huh. Who knew getting Magic Garden tickets was so easy. Jessica was so happy that last night you guys went to first base for the first time in months. Hoo, daddy, you’re on fire this weekend, and Fling’s barely gotten started.
“Hey babe!!!!!!!,” you text Jessica. “Wanna get tix for a downtown this weekend?”
Jessica is the girl of your dreams. She’s your manic pixie dream girl, the one who should have gotten away but didn’t. Your one and only true love. Ever since that first time your lips made contact in a hot, sweaty basement during NSO, you knew that the two of you were meant to be. Jessica has a personality as sweet as bubblegum, and has the cake to match.
Sydney Gawain (C '21) is a Type-A personality: she needs everything to fall into its perfect place, and that means that when it comes time for course selection, she needs her schedule to be just so. “I meticulously plan everything,” explained Gawain. “I need to know exactly where I will be and when. A difference of a half hour can be absolutely crucial; should I sign up for the 9:00 a.m. Econ recitation on Thursday, or the 9:30 one on Friday? On the one hand, I am much less likely to get lit the night before a Thursday, but on the other, I’m not a morning kind of gal, you know? I need my beauty rest. So although I will almost certainly get blasted at a mixer the night before, the 9:30 Friday seems so much more appealing just because that half hour of sleep can mean the difference between me being a zombie and me being… a slightly more alive zombie.”
Jessie Rodgers is a busy, busy gal with a lot on her plate: classes, homework, a job, a social life, and of course, her many, many dick appointments.
If you eat zero Oat:
Last Wednesday, the Penn administration was proud to announce that 96% of the undergraduate student body is now under the devil’s sway. The Satanic Cult that serves as the puppet master of this school’s administration did not respond to a request for comment, but threatening bloodstains did appear on the door of the UTB office.
Veganism has transformed Sydney Gerbelman’s life, and she wants you to know that it can do the same for you.
Finding housing is one of the more difficult challenges that students face, but for five lucky freshmen, things couldn’t have worked out better.
The prevailing belief on this campus is that white people have no culture. And yet, speaking from personal experience, I know that this utterly and completely false. White culture does exist, and it deserves to be celebrated. Although it is besieged on all sides by companies who refuse to write “Merry Christmas” on their holiday beverage cups and by foods that have just a little too much seasoning, I would like to take the time to stop and really appreciate what white people have contributed to our society.
Uh oh! Everyone always had the suspicion that Jacob Adams was a boob, but ever since he lost everything to a Pottruck locker, there's no doubt.
If you saw me walking down Locust today, you’d probably see me as a tall, obnoxious, punchable, blonde-haired, pale man with AirPods and a knock-off Rolex. But to the few people here on campus that know me beyond that, I’m also a third generation legacy, upper middle class, prep kid from a New England private school that has the emotional intelligence of Donald Trump’s pinky toes.
For years now professor Adam Grant has flown under the radar on this campus, but no longer. This Wharton professor is the biggest Papa I have ever seen, and nothing can convince me otherwise.
It’s 8:30 AM when your phone buzzes: “Hey.” The word electrifies your body. Immediately your mouth dries up in the heat of your excitement, and your palms begin to sweat. Even though you’re sitting down in class, your knees feel loose, and you’re not entirely sure if you’ll be able to get up again.
It was another sultry Saturday evening on Penn’s campus, and, as usual, Caroline Smithbanes (W '22) and Brandon Kennedy (N '22) had a thirst that only boys could satisfy. Unfortunately for Smithbanes and Kennedy, Penn was in the midst of a boy drought. Due to a combination of unfavorable conditions on campus, it would not be raining men for quite some time; in fact, in the coming weeks they could barely expect a drizzle.