"Bananas, bananas, bananas.”

There’s nothing sad about that. The name of the most comical fruit: A telephone, a cartoon slipping hazard, an erection substitute. . 

I’m a sensitive person. The smallest thing can break my heart. If I let myself, I’ll cry for hours. But somehow, along the way, I’ve created a hard, emotionless persona for myself. After 20 years, there’s no going back, so I gnaw on my tongue and think about bananas.

When you saw me for the first time, I was 12 years old, and I fell because you pushed and pulled, then pulled and pushed. Your desire made me feel seen, worth being counted, so I stepped aside, let you in, and we have lived together since. Though I was wrong about you then: I was nothing but another door for you to force open when one of your doors had slammed close.

My bed is my pride and joy. If you see me anywhere, I’d rather be there, lying in my field of flowers, under the stars—the fairy lights that I’ve had since 2020. It sits in the corner and acts like a throne for a queen who must watch all her subjects at every hour.

The human brain is the most complex organ in the human body for scientists to understand and, in turn, treat. While there are over 600 neurological diseases, I particularly want to dive into the complexity of epilepsy. My neurologist said I had to accept that every time I went to bed… “You may not wake up.” 

“Multiple Sclerosis,” he stated, in a tone that was more matter of fact than sympathetic. He didn’t care to explain what that entailed, but took the liberty of giving me time to Google it myself. When he came back into the room he asked if I had any questions. I only had one. “Could someone get the needle out of my arm?”

In our most vulnerable moments, we seek community. We desire the listening ears of others, their comforting eyes and soft hands welcoming our embrace. Until we don’t. Until we’re faced with two words that send shivers down the spine of a brooding teenager: group therapy. 

Somehow, a group of people I met six weeks prior changed my definition of home. They flipped it upside down, shook it around, rearranged it, rotated it ninety degrees. It was awful and wonderful and exciting and nerve-wracking and everything in between. I wouldn't want it any other way. 

It’s no secret that the T hosts Boston’s best cast of characters. And while some of those characters can be off-putting, others are some of the nicest people I have ever met. I can count on my fellow T riders.

The only thing worse than Florida is being from Florida. Since my escape to Boston, whenever I tell people my home state, I’m met with concerned faces, the pitiful “You poor thing,” or people literally backing away from me in fear. I use “escape” not as a hyperbole.

This unwavering sense of dread sparked a need to start capturing everything. Sure, there’s virtue in letting things live in your memories, but I was freaking out about time passing and developing an increased sense of sentimentality in the process. So, this past Christmas, the only gift I wanted was a digital camera.

Girls will have their partners try to wrap one arm around their waist and drink a cup of water, and there are challenges to see how small one can get when they tighten a corset. These trending videos are starting to dominate social media. Many don’t think a simple video on the internet can cause that much harm, but it can.

I see my dad twice a year. The last time I saw him feels like the kind of memory one associates with a photo—stagnant, an anecdote. We sat in a coffee shop in Boston at a small round table for an hour, sipping on coffee. It was brief. This time, jumping out of his car, he greeted me with a tight, bony hug at the North Carolina airport.

I thought that girls didn’t slut shame other girls for the clothes they wear anymore. At least, there wasn’t much of a dress code at school anymore. Since middle school, I had friends who were accepting of all kinds of beauty. I was living in a bubble. 

 I felt their passion. I craved their commitment. I couldn’t fathom loving something so much that I would leave behind any possibility of living a life for myself—one with romance, some parties, sleeping in, and wearing pants.

I thought it was a clean break—as clean as the sudden loss of a close friend can be. But before I knew it, Sara had created a new image for me, one I wasn’t comfortable with: the liar. She became Ruth’s advocate, her defender. She said all the right things: that I was a narcissist, a psycho, a sociopath, and a crazy bitch.

Much of my life has been spent waiting. Waiting for the day where I wake up and have all of life’s answers, where I wholeheartedly possess every and any quality I’ve ever felt I was lacking.

Technology was created for it to be relied on, but even with our continuous reliance on technology for our day-to-day needs, I am convinced that most of society are not using this tool to our full advantage. 

When magazines came out, every new page I flipped onto I came across a familiar face or name. People in my class got featured as writers, models, and photographers: everything that I was too scared to apply for. I felt like a failure.

Internalized misogyny (used interchangeably with internalized sexism), a term that was first explored by psychologist Steve Bearman in 2009, refers to sexist behaviors and attitudes held subconsciously by women against other women. As feminism has entered mainstream media, this condition has followed in its shadow.

My first love was food. My Venezuelan father, a skilled home cook with a truly inspirational passion for food, would feed my curious, young self extraordinarily rich dishes packed with spices that express intricate ancestral and cultural stories spanning back generations with a single bite.

Now, whenever I have a slice of my mom’s cheesecake, it transports me back to that rambunctious house, filled to the brim with all my extended family, the Christmas tree with the overly packed presents underneath it—one for each of my fifty-plus family members—bringing me back to when we used to celebrate the holidays together.

Nobody is upset about turning 20. At least, that’s what my parents told me this past June. But I was, I was the first of my friends to complete the second decade of my life, so there were few people to give me advice aside from my 60-year-old parents. According to them, these are going to be the “best years of my life.”

Finding some semblance of home while traveling in a new place is no easy feat, especially knowing your time there is temporary. Studying abroad is a formative experience for college students worldwide.

Talking to my friends’ boyfriends has never been easy. We only make small talk, usually talking about work and school. Once we finish these two topics the conversation goes stale. There I am, standing next to someone my best friend is in love with, someone who means so much to them, and I have run out of things to talk about. 

The idealistic haze of possibility perpetuated by travel influencers online often overlooks the potentially dangerous consequences of traveling unprepared, especially as a young woman.

Everyone seems to think that the way to solve your problems is by making a playlist for every occasion or pretending a camera is watching you cook pasta alone.

My new aversion to attention makes me feel sorry for my younger self who used to proudly wear her own frosting, how disappointed she would be to know that the big day in mid-March has become one I decidedly ignore until someone forces me not to.

As I reflect on these two vastly different places where I grew up, I realize that I am a fast walker, a fast talker, and someone who stands up for myself when others try to put me down.

After crashing into the water, I would have to find my way to the ladder and retrieve my goggles. Somehow, I always reigned victorious. 

The very first tarot card Mary pulled was the Nine of Swords which shows nine swords seemingly going through the figures’s back. She immediately asked me if I knew about someone who was talking behind my back.

There's something about the first crisp morning in October that triggers an almost Pavlovian response in the perpetually single. Perhaps it's the way scarves begin appearing around necks like relationship status indicators, or how every coffee shop suddenly transforms into a backdrop for potential romance…

He’s the sweet, bumbling “fixer-upper.” He’s a-dork-ably funny, and he never learned how to do laundry. His ineptitude is endearing at first, until you’re months into proving Freud right and teaching a grown man how to rinse the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher…

Yearning, pining, longing… Have you or someone you know been a victim of unrequited love? You may be entitled to emotional compensation…

There are three screens in front of me, filming a woman spanked by a man, from triad perspectives. Other men, hiding behind trees, touching themselves, to see how it feels. My steps roam through the room, am I a fool to come and see something so cruel? I ridicule myself for the role I play, amongst associating objectifiers, yet none of us look away.

College life is a juggling act, and adding romance to the mix can make it even more challenging. For those of you who haven't been to the circus before, imagine trying to keep multiple balls in the air while walking a tightrope— that's what balancing academics, social life, and a relationship can feel like. But fear not! With the right strategies and mindset, it's possible to excel in your studies while nurturing a fulfilling relationship.

It’s five days after our breakup. My cheeks and eyes are bleeding colors, matching pinks,  indistinguishable from the other. I pull my hair back to keep the tears away from it, and since my bedroom has become suffocatingly hot. In these last few days, we fought every night, each argument ending with his pleas for reconciliation. I feel as if my bed will remember my shape better than he ever will, and I realize that my hair has lost its shape as well.

Your mom’s boyfriend is a groaner. His sighs sound like an avalanche heaving down the side of a mountain. The groans reverberate through the walls accompanying every activity from browsing the fridge to movie nights. He has neck, teeth, and knee problems from working on a boatyard. Also, he plays the bongos when he’s happy.

But as a former user of dating apps myself, it was never about finding someone who worked with me. It was about similarities and, well, matching. In turn, I was looking for a mirror image of myself without even realizing it. I remember often dismissing any profiles that conflicted with my interests if the algorithm dared to let them slip through.

When you are becoming closer with an acquaintance who is also a friend of a friend, you already know their vibe. There are no surprises. But coming into college where the majority of students aren’t friends with anyone beforehand, there is no familiarity. You are all truly strangers, and it could be the first time you have to ask yourself, “Wait, how do I make friends again?”

On average, a date lasts anywhere from two to three hours. An exceptional one might last five. But have you ever heard of a 16 hour date? I never thought this could happen to me, and yet it did. Maybe it’s a queer thing! Is there an art to having a long date, or is spontaneity part of the thrill?

My roommate, also a lesbian, went on a date in December. In preparation for the glorious union, we enacted every hypothetical scenario that could happen on the date. A dramatic streetlight kiss, the light brushing of hands, the sensual walk up the apartment stairs in Allston as she followed her new lover to her apartment. 

In less than two weeks I had burnt two bridges: one was a boy I was dating for around three months, and the other was my best friend of almost three years. I broke up with the former over text two days after Valentine’s Day, and the other broke up with me the week of my birthday. It all sounds like karma until you realize that both of them wanted to end their relationship with me because they were too scared to speak up. 

Dating nowadays seems to be as easy as swiping left or right, but I think it's time to break the cycle altogether. While it might seem easier to just move on from one person to the next, instead you should try avoiding potential partners, period.

However, something I didn’t have on my 2023 bingo card was getting into a situationship! I truly planned my fall semester to be full of fun and spontaneity and my spring semester to be my globe-trotter era. Now, don’t get me wrong, that still happened, but I also fell in love in the process.

And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t hide it, and I certainly couldn’t handle it alone. I needed support, I needed help, but I wasn’t doing enough to get that. I was completely reliant on my partner to help with all my problems—to an extreme fault.

What is it about dates that makes me so red with rage? Is it the small talk with strangers that makes my shoulders turn a bruised violet from the weight of carrying the conversation? Is it the fact that I feel the need to survey every person I meet and test them to see if they will fit the position of boyfriend?

Are you familiar with the feeling of constantly landing in the friend zone no matter how hard you try to dive into the depths of romance? If so, you're not alone. However, in my journey through the maze of love, I've discovered that sometimes, being in the friend zone isn't such a bad thing.

When it comes to a blossoming romance, an astrological chart has always been my key to being delusional. “What time and place were you born at?” I ask, with a twinkle in my eye, hoping to uncover the cosmic secrets of compatibility. “No, I don't want your social security number; I’m not crazy. I’m just a firm believer that each and every one of our holistic identities are written in the stars.”

Sex and I have a complicated past. It’s like when your friends beg you to go with them somewhere, telling you it’ll be a great time and you’ll realize how much fun it is once you’re there, and so you cave and go. Once you get there, you realize they lied; it’s not fun.

I’ve been with my partner for over three years now, but every now and then I still catch myself looking up his old flings on social media. We’re each other’s first serious relationship; and yes, we’re both well aware that we both have had flings, situationships, FWBs—whatever you want to call it—in the past and it’s never been an issue in our relationship.

Letters take various forms, like Post-It notes, birthday cards, postcards, written declarations of love (or hate)…the list goes on. To me, a letter features a written message; its complexity knowing no bounds. These Post-It notes were my first experiences with what I consider to be letters, and I only became more familiar with this form of expression when I started facing difficult conversations. 

After a party, when one is alone in bed, or sometimes in the middle of the day while writing for a nonfiction creative writing class––these are some of many instances where we receive a request to send nude pictures of ourselves to a suitor or a random person over the internet.

I know. You are reading the title and thinking, “Well, that’s dramatic.” It is, but it would be a lie to say that there is absolutely no societal pressure to find your person in college. Unlike high school sweethearts, which are considered special and rare, couples who met in college are pretty easy to find.

Call it circumstance, call it fate, call it what you want to, but the universe always finds a way to humble us. Often, it’s in the form of a special kind of hell–running into the very person you want to, depending on the moment, punch or kiss in the face. The ex.

I recently had an experience hooking up with someone where the connection was unreal. Two bodies and two hearts intertwined with all the passion and buildup that one could ever hope for. My summer had been arguably dry, so I was thrilled to return to campus life in Boston to be around my contemporaries and to better my mind and spirit. 

I was simply single, craving attention, and feeling a little frisky over winter break. But before I knew it, the video was blowing up and the audience was overwhelmingly women loving women.

In a feed full of aesthetic clips and cheesy affirmations, how can we tamp down our inner cringe and truly believe that these practices yield results?

I’ve taken what God’s given me (in this case, God is Joseph Gordon Levitt in yoga pants) and seen it in a way I consider worthy of beauty and attraction.

Books shouldn’t have the power to do this, but unfortunately, they do.

At the 2024 VMA’s, two of the biggest up-and-coming pop stars, Sabrina Carpenter and Tate McRae, both wore red carpet looks that referenced past pop stars’ iconic outfits. Carpenter paid tribute to Madonna’s 1991 Academy Awards gown, and McRae referenced Britney Spears’ 2001 VMAs black lace dress. Each of these looks paid homage to women who paved the way for these modern stars, today both sonically and in style…

Let me take you back in time. It’s 2012. Barack Obama’s in office. The iPhone 5 just hit the market. One Direction’s “Live While We’re Young” might be playing on the car radio. Many believe the world will end before the end of the year. Yet, this dystopia isn’t too hard to fathom…

With the release of Sam Levinson and The Weeknd’s controversial series The Idol in June 2023, the cultural obsession with the “bad” pop girl came into sharp focus. Despite the backlash for its overt sexualization and glamorization of destructive behaviors, the show reflects a deeper truth…

I enrolled at Emerson, as Love Is Blind hosts Vanessa and Nick Lachey would say, “sight unseen.” In a way, I fell in love with the idea of Emerson without ever seeing it. Part of me was terrified to visit the campus, worried I would regret my decision, and dread starting my Freshman year.

Comment sections flood with users begging for more videos labeled “Hope Core,” expressing that they make them cry or help them find faith in the world again. I will admit that these videos have made me sob and have felt like an escape from the dizzying amount of negative news. 

The thing is, martyrdom has been so excessively glorified that many of us have deluded ourselves into aspiring it. And for what, the chance that we’d be appreciated for it? I’ve learned, painstakingly, how that’s hardly a reason for doing something. 

We’ve all heard about him. We’ve watched him smolder and lie and still get away unscathed. He’s been with us for years. The one who is a little bit damaged, a dash lost, but on the crest of being saved. He’s two steps from the ledge and three steps from your arms. The bad boy from the pages of my and many other readers’ guilty pleasure: contemporary romance books.

As a self-proclaimed bookworm and literature student, there’s a sense of panic that arises when someone asks that dreaded question, “What’s your favorite book?” The last book I read that I deemed a “favorite” was from high school, which was only a few years ago, so why wasn’t that a valid answer? The truth was that I hadn’t read enough since then to even begin choosing a favorite.

Music has the power to bring back lost memories while simultaneously creating new ones. It also evokes emotions you’d never think would resurface. Songs like “Rock the Casbah” have the same effect as so many others, because music is held in a special place in both our brains and hearts.

As a self-proclaimed music-lover and the current music coordinator at a Boston-based radio station, I have encountered my fair share of misogynistic indie men. Sometimes they express their hatred loudly and unabashedly. But other times, they let their biases lurk silently under the surface, until one day, they accidentally let it slip. 

Seeing my brother lose interest in his art made me question my place at Emerson, my career choice, and my talents. As mostly arts and communications students, we know this uncertainty all too well. We spend entirely too much money at Emerson to be stressed about whether we will earn any of it back.

The use of artificial intelligence has infiltrated almost every aspect of fashion marketing and, most recently, has posed a serious threat to the existing modeling industry. It is becoming increasingly popular for brands to utilize AI software to create “models” for their new collections, and while these advertisements truly are captivating, the implications for instituting these non-human models into the world of fashion are potentially dangerous.

When I first landed my job at Sephora, I wanted it only for the free products and discounts on beauty products. I’ve always had a passion for makeup, but I didn’t know it was going to be one of my best and worst jobs yet. 

There’s some powerful thread that connects every individual member of the audience, the actors on stage, and the crew that creates the show. For the time that everyone is in a theater, the outside world, the ‘real’ world, is forgotten. The world of the show takes over.

The Grateful Dead is long past its heyday, yet their music has withstood the tests of time. With each generation, the music, culture, and messages are passed down. Calling themselves “Deadheads,” the devotees spread joy to those who are willing to listen.

Though sports fans can say that they were invested in this scandal because it perfectly embodies the stereotype of American soccer parents—petty, ridiculous, and Karen-esque—and at the end of the day, everybody loves some good old-fashioned drama.

 Those moments are what makes music magical and tangible, when you can physically feel the grainy guitar riffs or heavy beats vibrating through you. With concert ticket prices skyrocketing that ineffable feeling seems further than ever, but thanks to a little place called YouTube.com it’s not so distant. 

In the past two decades, the way that we share music with each other has been utterly overhauled. In an instant, we can share a song with someone thousands of miles away with just a push of a button.

All artists subject themselves to the public light once they are famous, it’s part of the unwritten rules that come with the spotlight. Some may argue, they subject themselves to this form of abuse by just existing, but online fan culture has brought parasocial relationships to an entirely new level.

I have a terrible condition: I can’t watch or read anything that doesn’t have a happy ending. If the media has even a hint of a tragic resolution, I run in the other direction.

When I say that we need to make more original work and fewer spin-offs or adaptations, I am not talking about Percy Jackson and the Olympians. I will complain about another live-action remake of a beloved Disney animation, or the twentieth book in a YA series initially published fifteen years ago, but all bets are off when it comes to Percy. 

Growing up, I always brought my DVD copies of Barbie as the Princess and the Pauper, Barbie: Fairytopia, and Barbie of Swan Lake to sleepovers (so 2000s, I know). What I loved about these movies was how magical they seemed. I was able to escape into the life of a fairy, or a princess, or a mermaid; all things that my inner child desired to be.

I will never forget the first time I watched a telenovela. I was four years old and at my grandparents' house, while my parents attended a Law convention.

My most embarrassing secret as a Writing, Literature & Publishing major with a literary concentration? I’m a romance reader. Well, maybe reader isn’t the most accurate term–I’m a romance devourer.

How are you supposed to feel like you’re in the Land of the Sweets with Clara when the person next to you is playing Candy Crush with their brightness turned all the way up?

Maybe a modern actor’s face can take away from one’s viewing experience, but there are certainly better ways to express that feeling than the easy out of diagnosing “iPhone face.”

There’s a fine line between investigative journalism and creating a spectacle of someone’s death or disappearance. And that line is often public involvement.

The very idea of centering an entire series around an entirely white, out-of-touch, filthy rich, and ethically rotten family, such as the Roys, seems like it would spell out a show’s death sentence due to a perceived lack of viewer empathy.

There is only one difference between a woman wearing a pink boa to a Harry Styles concert and a man painting his face for a football game: simply, he is a man.