
It’s been a privilege
Millenial Meltdown
Privilege, in my house, was getting dessert after dinner or borrowing the Lexus. But privilege is now a buzzword, and it appears to be everywhere.
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Privilege, in my house, was getting dessert after dinner or borrowing the Lexus. But privilege is now a buzzword, and it appears to be everywhere.
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At 3, I wanted to be a king. Unaware as I was of the definitively scarce demand for kings in the modern workplace and otherwise unconcerned by such obstacles, I told anyone who stood still long enough about my grand machinations.
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Instead of excavating through the reserves of childhood photos and late-90s Polaroids (I think it was 1999 when Congress passed the Polaroids Are Cool Again Act) on my computer for a suitable Throwback Thursday Instagram, I thought I would go one step further. I went to see a movie. In IMAX.
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The truth is, I get emails like this every day: emails, texts, telegrams, handwritten letters and untrackable Venmo payments with pleas for life advice in the description.
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So your third-favorite English-major friend walks in and gets in line. He has that look in his eyes that says, “I’m going to order a Blonde Roast coffee and work on my screenplay,” and you happily interrupt that look with a wave.
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Introverts, like George W. Bush’s still life paintings, are misunderstood creatures. Most people — including most introverts, in fact — believe the word is functionally a synonym for quiet and socially reserved. And introverts can certainly fit this description, but so can extroverts.
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Imagine that it’s a Friday night. You know what that means: “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,” Nestle Drumsticks and some Ibuprofen. A little medical marijuana for your, uh, restless foot syndrome. Maybe some friends.
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What do George Will, Condoleezza Rice, Christine Lagarde, Robert Zoellic, Ben Carson, Michelle Obama and my busboy application to TGI Friday’s all have in common? They all have, in the last few months, faced unjustified, ill-advised and intensely troubling rejections.
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I’m no ghost expert. Nor do I imagine, based on the drawing of the ghost on the application icon, is Snapchat. But I would hazard to guess that ghosts are either invisible or, on the whole, fairly inconspicuous.
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Freshman move-in day two years ago was as exciting, nerve shredding and memorable as all the John Hughes movies promised it would be. Proverbial to the last drop.
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