Hopkins is a diverse university where an incredible mix of cultures, academic interests and personalities coexist and thrive. Here is the section where you can publish your unique thoughts, ideas and perspectives on life at Hopkins and beyond.
When you come out, you get a lot of things. You get an ID card from the Human Rights Campaign. You get a welcome basket with a gift card for a free body piercing. And you get a fuckton of expectations about your gender expression.
Last September, I woke up early on a Thursday morning and took an Uber to the Planned Parenthood clinic in central Baltimore.
There was this girl once who had been sexually assaulted by someone she knew. This girl hid from it for a very long time. She pushed it down, down, down so that it did not exist and the memory was just a dream. She forgot though, that reality has a way of making itself apparent to her.
Clarissa was a passionate collector of the small toys that were dispensed in capsules from the gumball machines in front of grocery stores. Her first full collection, comprised of mini Sailor Moon bobbleheads, had been paid for by the quarters her dad collected from his addiction to vending machine snacks.
I’m a 22-year-old college senior, and I have never kissed anyone. It’s not for lack of attraction or for any kind of religious reasons. It just never happened.
Before I ever experienced romantic love, I spent years wondering how it might feel. From early 2000’s Taylor Swift ballads to my grandparents’ slow dance at their 50th wedding anniversary: The world around me was teeming with romance.
I have been dating my girlfriend, Sydney, since Valentine’s Day in the eighth grade. Yesterday marks our seven-year anniversary.
For better or worse, I’m mostly attracted to boys. But in the last few months I’ve started to think about other labels. And that terrifies me.
This Wednesday, as couples celebrate their love and single folks unify in shared independence, another humble holiday transpires below the surface — the beginning of Lent.
The friend zone. The proverbial Sunken Place in which people hate to be caught. For some, it could be the worst possible thing that could ever happen.
It was a particularly brisk day — the kind of fall day that teeters right at the edge of winter — when I crossed 31st Street last semester and made my way to the Counseling Center for my very first appointment.
This article had the potential to be the most stereotypically millennial thing I’ve ever written, aside from a caption I came close to posting on my finsta at 2 a.m. last week, in which I called the latest Snapchat update a sensory overload and a grossly inefficient redesign. (Seriously, kids, don’t download it.)
It is nice, I suppose, to be told that as women, we don’t need men to kick ass. It would be nicer, though, if we women had the luxury of exploring our sexuality without feeling that our power would be somehow diminished.
Math is like the jar of Nutella sitting on my desk while writing is like the jar of chocolate hazelnut spread on my roommate’s desk.
In honor of Valentine’s Day, I have decided to finally write about my namesake Catwoman, aka Selina Kyle, and her famously tumultuous relationship with Batman, aka Bruce Wayne, as portrayed on Fox’s Gotham.
During 11th grade Health class, my friend and I joked about the “mystique of the clitoris” when our teacher failed even to mention its existence in her lesson on sex organs. After class, shocked, we asked her why.
The question of what my favorite flavor is ought to excite me because I love ice cream, but instead it frustrates me. Every time I’m asked this question, I need at least a good 10 seconds before answering. It’s one of the most seemingly innocent questions you could ask to get to know someone better, but it unleashes a flurry of madness in my mind.
The Emmy-winning HBO fantasy drama Game of Thrones (GoT) is famous for a lot of things, like its elaborate sets and costumes, its eagerness to kill off main characters, and of course its innumerable graphic sex scenes. Many have criticized the show for being overly pornographic or displaying excessive sexual violence.
A month ago, I woke up to the worst text I had ever received in my life. It was a suicide note from a close friend. A few hours later, when another friend and I found him, it was far too late.
With the Super Bowl over (and me feeling like the only person on campus upset about the Pats losing), it may feel like time to forget about the lovely distraction that sports provide from more pressing issues. Fortunately, that isn’t the case this year. The 2018 Olympic Winter Games, hosted in PyeongChang, South Korea, begin in only a few days.
