Do you think I chose Northwestern for the academics, the extracurriculars, or the community? No! I chose it for the Evanston Chili’s.
Well golly-gee-good-morning, world! My name is John J. Johnson, and I have the best life ever!
The other day when I was driving and intently studying the bumper stickers on the car in front of me, I saw my least favorite sticker of all time.
It continued until the outbreak ended and I returned to my dorm to realize that I, Diego Guerrero, have become the last surviving Elderite.
Call it what you want, but there’s nothing like being blown to smithereens to calm me down after a stressful week.
She can say absolutely anything and we will be none the wiser, because no one listens to women.
What a quarter this has been. From late nights ripping my hair out behind a bookshelf in Core, to late nights ripping my hair out in the corner of the quiet section in Mudd, I truly feel like I’ve reached the limit of what I’m going to accomplish at Northwestern. This has all brought me to one conclusion: I could die and nothing on this campus would change. If I got rolled over by a steam roller, I’d just be
Wood frame, metal blade, disgruntled French hangman. Back in the days of the French Revolution, these were the three things you needed to kill someone, all compiled into one machine: the guillotine. But the extinction of the guillotine isn’t just about the advancement of weaponry; it is clearly indicative of a more serious problem in society: people these days don’t support blue-collar jobs, and so we need to bring back the guillotine. In the time of the guillotine, killing someone
While the snow, accelerated by the wind, stabbed me over and over again in the eyes this week, I realized one thing: Northwestern needs a tunnel.
Kinda got me thinking: “What if he just wasn’t alive anymore?”