When “Blurred Lines” was released in 2013, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of being both captivated by a catchy beat and turned off by lyrics that seemed to condone sexual assault, categorizing consent as a “blurred line.” Ironically, my mom was probably Robin Thicke’s biggest fan.
In the midst of a frazzled rant, a friend interrupted me to ask, “Is this making you feel any better?” Walking through campus, I had been poring over a seemingly endless list of upcoming projects, assignments and other miscellaneous problems I proclaimed simply could not be solved.
"What is it about silence that is so unsettling and deeply irksome?" I wonder as I spit out some trite retort to a friend’s comment to avoid having nothing to say. Silence makes me so anxious that I instinctively fill it with some equally meaningless remark.
Twenty-two years ago, thousands of protestors flooded the streets of South Central Los Angeles, Calif.
At Princeton, where students are responsible for completing extensive educational courses on sexual assault before even enrolling in classes, and where student-run organizations dedicated to combating assault on campus abound, characterizing consent remains a touchy and controversial subject.Although sexual assault victims don't always say no, they also don't always exude enthusiasm and affirmative interest.
“Everyone’s here to make money,” an upperclassman, nonchalantly chowing down on a Late Meal quesadilla, declared to me the first Thursday of freshman week, “Premeds want to make money.
