Do It This Weekend: Ohiolina

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Did someone say…white people in Indian headdresses doing stimulants in the California desert? You mean… Coachella? Not quite! We’re talking about Ohiolina, the local music festival that’s happening this weekend at Ariel Foundation Park presumably featuring less cultural appropriation and recreational drug use. I went my freshman year and had a bomb pulled pork sandwich and jammed out to some banjo bops.

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It Happened To Me: I Developed a Smoking Habit and Declared an Art Minor



Poorly photoshopped by the author, via and


I am a woman of simple pleasures. I enjoy sleeping in late on Sunday afternoons to find that my eyeliner has smeared all over my pillow case. I take pleasure in the smell of freshly wet, musty clothes I attempt to dry in the Old K laundry room. I like the bitter, burnt taste of the coffee from Peirce. I like life. Life is good. But I apparently hate myself.

The smoking habit follows a simple trajectory: I smoked while drunk. I would hit up literally anyone available on the patios at parties for a cig, and I’d shame myself in the morning for doing so. I am an independent woman! I shouldn’t be asking anyone for a cigarette! So I bought my own. Soon I found myself smoking while walking to class. Now I find myself smoking outside the library hoping my life morphs into a Greta Gerwig film.

I’ve never considered myself an “art person.” I cannot draw, I cannot paint. I do not have any stick and poke tattoos. I don’t wear those clogs, I don’t carry a Fjallraven Kanken. I like art, I suppose. I’ve been to the MoMA, I’ve nodded and hummed when my friends would comment on “the real message” behind feces smeared on a wall. I am currently enrolled in two art classes, one that counts towards my film major, Digital Imaging and one for fun, Book Arts. I like these classes. I like collaging and taking saucy selfies and photoshopping fire coming out of my eyes. If that is considered art, then so be it. If that is art, then I can do it. Heck, I can even minor in it!

There you have it. I am a girl who constantly wears a trench coat who has a nose ring and an eyebrow piercing. I am a girl who constantly appears to be slightly pissed off, who wears a lot of black, who uses a Glossier pouch as a pencil case. I am a girl you will see smoking outside the library, outside Horvitz. I am a stereotype. I am finally self-aware.

I am Stupid, but the Health Center is Not


Over the summer I had sex without a condom with a boy I did not know who had a lighter covered in Kanye West album art and wrote bad poetry. Needless to say, it was not one of my finest moments, but it happened, and I didn’t think much of it. I got to school and classes started, and things were great until my period was a day late. Naturally, I freaked out. I knew I was plain stupid for not using a condom, to begin with, and the mere idea of being pregnant with a child whose father I blocked on Twitter and hates Lil Yachty made me sick inside. Even though my period was only a day late, I convinced myself and everyone around me that I was roughly 25% sure I pregnant, and that I potentially had an STI. I would not sleep well until I knew I was zygote and disease free, so I went to the health center as soon as I could.

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