This is the time when you finally have to tell your non-clothes-washing, non-pants-wearing, questionable-judgement-on-sexual-partners roommate that there is no way in hell their name will be on a lease next yours again.
Winter break is upon us, and with it comes almost a full month of unadulterated free time. With such free time we enter the black hole danger zone.
I’ve had to come to grips recently with the fact that I’m blatantly spitting in the face of the GW gods. I’m not studying abroad.
The 300-capacity restaurant and music club in Georgetown showcases bluegrass, country, rock and folk, filling a musical vacancy in a city rife with rock, indie and hip hop venues.
Hide your booze. Hide your bowls. Put on your best puppy dog eyes, and wait for campus to fill with tuition-payers and child-rearers. It’s parents weekend.
GW and its mile-wide social circles make asking ‘what’d you do?’ and ‘who’d you do?’ an art form, especially after we’ve been forced to rely on Instagram photos and Facebook relationship statuses to get our fix of artistic inspiration over the last three months.
Dorm fronts once crowded with students, Sperrys and fraternity corner cookouts are barren come the end of May. All of those absences leave me with this question: What does Foggy Bottom miss most when it’s missing us?