These are our confessions: Wildcat opinions columnists reveal what they've really been doing while they're away at college
I'm an athlete, and I've stolen things
It's all about the brotherhood, I promise.
Except when you're making your "little bro" go door to door to the sororities in boxers with an "American Pie"-style sock, porn and Vaseline, and asking to use their restroom. And the worst part of it all? When I had to do it, Chi Omega actually let me in. I even had their composite halfway to Mountain Avenue before three girls tackled me.
But don't think I'm not staying in shape. I didn't have shoes! Besides, I'm an athlete now. At a game that we'll call a mix between basketball and pingpong.
But no, it's the charity. Except when we're trying to see who can eat 50 Chicken McNuggets the fastest (answer: It's possible, but not without throwing them back up).
Inappropriate? Of course. But you did it too, I'm sure.
Ryan Johnson is a senior majoring in economics and international studies. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
'Homework' a labor of love
"Doing homework" is probably the most nebulous phrase in the entire universe. For you guys, I'm assuming that "doing homework" also involved listening to groovy 45s and, I don't know, ironing out your long hair.
For me it includes: sitting at my desk desperately trying to remember the name of the kid who threw up all over his desk in third grade so I can see if he's on the Facebook (and if he is, whether he turned cute); spending upward of seven minutes trying to write an away message that smacks both of wit and spontaneity; eating; falling asleep with a book on my face; checking my e-mail; checking my e-mail again; oh, and then checking it at least nine more times.
This all takes a lot of energy. So, when I say I'm exhausted from doing homework, feel free to send brownies or something. Love, Lori.
Lori Foley is a senior majoring in French and English. She can be reached at email@example.com.
My name is Ella, and I am a procrastinator
Moment of truth: I have a procrastination problem.
Indeed, I would place myself (with dubious pride) in the upper echelons of the university's time-management challenged. Considering the competition, this is quite a feat.
Please don't assume that this is a position easily attained. It is not mere neglect of assignments and studying, oh no. This is complicated and exquisite labor.
Requiring the help of many supportive friends, constant abuse of futile online addictions and pure zone-out ability, the art of delay cannot be taught. Not everyone can handle the rigorous requirements of true mastery.
In its highest form, it involves coming as close to absolute, terrifying breakdown as possible the dreaded night before, and somehow managing an acceptable product in the exhilarating recovery from free fall.
Each time, after the cycle of stress, the immobilization, the iced coffee IVs and grateful worship of our 24-hour library is complete, I swear to myself, "I'm never procrastinating again."
I'll get right on that, in fact. Next week.
Ella Peterson is a creative writing junior. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
My parents don't know what I did last semester
I'm not the first person in my family to pursue a college education. In fact, I'm not even the second. My dad received a degree in biology and then he went on to get his Ph.D. in anthropology. My mom received a degree in education.
So, to say the least, hopes were high when I came to the UA. I was going to follow in their footsteps and become a teacher.
But what did I end up doing with their money and with my tenure at Arizona?
Zip. Zilch. Nothing. Nada. My parents thought I was here to become the next Jaime Escalante and save the world, but instead, I spent my college years in a desperate attempt to get laid and beat the computer at "StarCraft."
What my parents don't know is I will be laughing all the way to the bank - the irony bank.
Alan Eder is a senior majoring in Spanish and political science. He can be reached at email@example.com.
Parent dollars gave me the real lessons in life
My parents' money was spent helping me learn the real lessons of college, the ones you don't pick up in the classroom.
I learned that trash bags and a shower can make an incredible 5-gallon water balloon from a third-story window. I learned that pizza, even though it has cheese and meat, can still be quite tasty two days later if not refrigerated.
I have also learned that Thursday nights are the new Friday nights, and professors who teach Friday mornings never got the memo. One hard but well-earned nugget of knowledge is that street signs are planted in the ground for a reason, but an inebriated barfly can contradict such a claim.
Although my bank account receives glorious transfers of money for books and food, sometimes bars see more of it than Albertson's. My parents may have given money for the classrooms, but they have really paid for my life lessons.
Mike Morefield is a political science senior. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.