On April 23,Colter Smith argued that body image campaignshave frequently erred in their attempts to promote a healthier environment insofar as they only target the conception that one’s body isn’t beautiful, rather than unhealthy attributions of self-worth.
There is perhaps no way to accurately convey the experience of living with an eating disorder, but over the course of the past seven years the best way I have discovered to (concisely) convey the point has been to describe a pernicious “voice” that is simultaneously mine and not mine that whispers self-loathing offers of faux control into my consciousness.
TED talks have long been fodder for conversation. Ranging in subject from issues of the environment to innovations in scientific research to social commentary, these speeches often offer a snapshot of the United States’ current state of being.
Hypocrisy is a curious human condition, and one that is important both to experience and to take note of, whether in oneself or in others.
If you know me, then you know there are few things in life that make me more uncomfortable than the prospect of singing in public.
For my friends, the process of choosing a movie involves nearly half an hour of deliberation, weighing individual preferences and moods (and the availability of certain titles on Netflix or quasi-reputable streaming sites). We float suggestions as disparate as Silence of the Lambs and Shakespeare in Love, and sometimes the whole endeavor is too fraught with conflict that we end up giving up altogether. The other night, however, we were all able to settle on Snowpiercer, the premise of which is a train that holds the survivors of a new Ice Age caused by scientists trying to combat global warming and succeeding all too well.
Many narratives comprise the “Princeton experience,” but perhaps what is most often cited is the idea of the Orange Bubble.
I have no opinions.Well, I should qualify that statement. I have an abundance of opinions, but I have very few opinions that I feel comfortable articulating outside the realm of writing.
When people ask me about my time in Spain this past summer, it’s interesting to me which details emerge in sharp relief upon retelling.
I am from Saint Louis, Miss. I was born there, and I spent most of my childhood and adolescence coming to terms with the mess of contradictions and issues that form the core of the city that I identify as home, while still trying to open my eyes to what makes this “flyover city” special. I am not from Ferguson specifically; I am from another suburb that helps compose the series of rings around Saint Louis’ largely rundown nucleus.
