Column

There are no words to cover the expanse of time that has been lost.

Having an invisible disability means that oftentimes people won’t believe you or believe the severity of your pain, doubling the time it takes to get diagnosed.

Later on, the image of the squirrel continued to haunt me. Had I really witnessed a return from the dead? Maybe it was a zombie squirrel now, and Chancellor Carol Tecla Christ would have to quarantine the entire campus to prevent an outbreak. That would really mess up my body clock. I just had to know. A few seconds of research later, I had my answer. I had witnessed splooting.

Summer sports are a wild card.

I’m disappointed my semester-long run as the arts columnist at The Daily Californian isn’t ending with more intrigue. If there’s an arts opinion that could get me canceled by the UC Berkeley student body, thus ending my time here in scandal — I can’t think of it.

These apps are the dining-hall-egg-flavored vape cartridge of the masses, but this also happens to be what makes them fun.

I had been relying on the valid excuse of COVID-19 to avoid concerts, but I still crave seeing my favorite musicians perform.

To share my story requires doing so on my own terms, and to do that takes an incredible amount of vulnerability.

Quiet nights, wherever they might be, are best saved for my journaling, to reflect on and sum up the day, while mornings are best for more public forms of writing.

I’m working on accepting change, and acknowledging that the past can remain the past and still be remembered in all its nuance and glory.