On The ASStor Place Cube
By Yasmin Gulec, Under the Arch Editor
This week is about the commute, and as a person that lives in the East Village with close proximity to both campus and the subway that takes me to my internship, I feel like I have no reason to rant. I am also aware that I say that every time I rant, but week after week I find myself writing these short snippets during class as my professor aggressively scribbles on the board and I so gladly ignore. I love where I live, it is lively and close to many of my friends. The one thing, however, that makes me roll my eyes is the freaking cube. Let me explain. The cube, to everyone’s (but my) delight, moves! How exciting. So you get different groups of crowds that just push it around. I have grouped them into three: drunks that push it around while screaming like they are in some sort of coming-of-age movie featuring Nat Wolff, tourists and finally New Yorkers who want to understand what the previous two are gushing over (also Matt Damon was seen pushing the cube with his children this week). Don’t get me wrong, I like the cube. I just don’t understand the people pushing it. Though I must admit I also did push it myself one cold winter night, my first year, slightly intoxicated. So maybe I just feel nostalgic about my carefree first year when everything was new and exciting, and now I am turning into a sad and bitter senior. Thanks, Tony Rosenthal, for making this giant turning cube which has caused my second existential crisis of the week. Ooof.
On Intimidating Teenagers
By Melanie Pineda, Opinion Editor
Here’s the thing about commutes — mine is actually pretty bearable on most days. I live pretty close to campus — about a 15-20 minute walk on a good day — so I don’t have to suffer through 40 minutes on the train like some students do. I also live right next to a subway station, so I can get just about anywhere in New York without too much of a hassle — although the reliability of the MTA could make for a whole other rant. The one thing I will say that bothers me about my commute are the teens and preteens I stumble upon on the way to campus. I live about a block away from a middle school and a high school, so on those unlucky days where I have to head to campus around either 8 a.m. or 3 p.m., hordes of adolescents litter the sidewalks, laughing about memes that my old mind doesn’t understand and carrying around bookbags bigger than their bodies, which makes it nearly impossible to maneuver around them. The worst part is the fact that I’ve never really grown out of my baby face, so I look like one of the dozens of faces in this crowd, leaving me completely vulnerable to judgemental looks and confused glances about where on earth this 5-foot-1-inch woman/child came from.
On Being Able To Just Run
By Hanna Khosravi, Opinion Editor
I’m always late, so I often find myself running — literally — to class, or the WSN office, or work, or anywhere that I’m supposed to be at any certain time. It’s in my DNA — I can’t avoid it. I know which shoes are best for spurts or running on an as-needed basis — boots, ironically, fare better than Vans on pavement — and have become relatively unabashed about maneuvering through crowds with two bags, brimming with paperbacks, hardcovers, my laptop and chargers. But here’s the rave — back in the early aughts of my NYU days, I used to actually feel embarrassed about running in the street, down Astor, across Washington Place, etc. But the incredible thing about New York? No one cares! People are too busy thinking or staring straight ahead or talking on the phone to even notice my hasty running. I hardly notice when others run through the street until they pass me. Now, if this was a small town, everyone would notice — it would make a scene! But in New York, you can make a fool of yourself, free from judgment. It rocks.
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