Are you sick of walking down Middle Path just to realize that every face you pass is unfamiliar? Do you crave the sensation of gently caressing another person’s hand as you reach for the same Chipotle mayo bottle? Or are you just looking for something beyond the bizarre Kenyon hookup culture for a meaningful conversation on the middle of New Side?
At the glorious age of 15 (yes, 15, admittedly too old for this to happen), my favorite activities included binge-watching The Walking Dead, and searching my asthma symptoms on Web M.D. and diagnosing myself with immaculate conception. I never shook the latter hobby, as on average I send a picture of my tonsils to my mother twice a week to make sure I’m not dying. It was fall 2014. The Houston air was transitioning from humid to slightly less humid, and I had traded in my Sperry’s for a darker look of a Miley Cyrus lob, and a Sharpie tattoo of a triangle that captured the essence of my new high school identity.