Benedict Cumberbatch and other stories from London

On July 4, I stepped out of St. Pancras train station and into my storybook land. I was one of those kids who grew up with a weird obsession with England. I was raised on a diet of British fantasy novels by Roald Dahl and Eva Ibbotson. I pretended to be
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Off the Beat: Wherever you go, there you are

I flip over onto my stomach in the morning. 11 a.m. Fuck. No recollection of turning off the alarms set for 7 a.m., 8:15 a.m., 10:45 a.m. Missed morning training again. The rugby girls won’t care. I’m American; therefore, all my misbehavior is somehow excused and/or overlooked. They won’t even
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Gena-mour Barrett

Party in the USA?

Worlds Collide

A typical night out at my home university consists of the following few things: First is a choice of one of three rather pitiful nightclubs in the area, all of which promise an average night out at best but can’t be faulted for their consistency in delivering mediocrity. After getting
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