Being in college, promiscuity is at an all-time high. College is a time to hook up, have fun and make bad decisions. One major dilemma arises when it comes to hooking up: What if she gets pregnant?
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Recently my boyfriend John and I discovered the true meaning of love while waiting in line for breakfast at Hash House a Go Go. For those who have never been, Hash House is a breakfast restaurant in the Hillcrest area that provides large servings of food. And I do mean large: One meal could easily feed a starving family of four.
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Halloween sucks. There, I said it. Yeah, that’s right, I’ll say it again: Halloween sucks. It is without question the most overrated holiday of the year. In fact, it shouldn’t even be called a holiday. It doesn’t deserve to be in the same class as Christmas, St. Patrick’s Day or even Columbus Day.
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I jerked awake at 7:30 a.m. in my sleeping bag. I was in my brother’s camper in San Clemente and, as usual, I was the first one awake after a long night. I was still salty and sandy from our beach adventures the day before. Day-old mascara had melted onto my cheeks and my hair was threatening to dread and never return to its usual locks.
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I’m not sure how many of you actually remember your “first time,” but mine was one that’s hard to forget. For those who remember it as awkward or embarrassing, I can assure you my story will help ease your pain.
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No matter who you are, what you believe in or how politically involved you are, chances are that at some point in your life, a petitioner has made you uncomfortable. It’s an unavoidable fact of life. Everyone has been approached by at least one of these form-bearing passer-outers, and I think others can relate when I say I spend the duration of the time trying to figure out the quickest way out of it.
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David Pope recently traveled to Las Vegas to celebrate his 21st birthday. The first part of his adventure can be found in the Oct. 15 issue of The Daily Aztec or online at www.thedailyaztec.com .
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San Diego has finally cooled down, which can only mean one thing: The Ugg boots have emerged. Yes, the monstrosities known as Uggs can be seen all across campus now that it’s a frigid 64 degrees outside.
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For the past few months, I have been living in a shack made out of particle board and plastic. Every surface has been painted white to hide the marks of a shady past that I’m sure includes the manufacturing and selling of crack cocaine.
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Let me take you back to an innocent time. A time when people continuously speculated on the whereabouts of Carmen Sandiego. A time when people thought Zack from “Saved by the Bell” was the pinnacle of cool. It was 1992 and I was 5 years old.
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I’m writing this the morning of Wednesday, Oct. 14. I’ve been back in San Diego since Sunday night from my first post-21st-birthday trip to Las Vegas. Sometime during that weekend I caught what I really believe to be the worst cold of my life.
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Yesterday I celebrated my one-year anniversary of turning 21 years old. Yes, you read me correctly. I am currently in denial and refuse to believe my mother when she tells me my life is now officially going downhill. It’s only been one day and I’m already afraid to wake up in the morning and look in the mirror only to hear my skin say to me “You look like you could use some Botox, honey.”
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In grade school, the highlight of life was being formally asked to “go out” by a boy. You’d go to a PG-rated film, maybe hold hands and maybe even kiss if you were mature for your age. Chivalry is a trait that must peak in boys at age 10 because it seems to go downhill from there.
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You’re at a bar. The music is too loud; that one guy is being a little too creepy and you do not want to follow your friend into the bathroom that looks like a scene straight out of “Trainspotting.” The only option is obvious: Go outside. But once you’re out there, it’s a conundrum trying to figure out what to do. Rather than sitting there, shivering like a Chihuahua — you can smoke a cigarette.
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As many of you may recall, last week was my birthday. I turned 21 years old and celebrated all weekend with my best friends, really having the time of my life. But the week wasn’t perfect. And because I’m David Pope, I choose to highlight those blemishes.
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Maybe it’s just me, but I’m beginning to think more and more people have forgotten the etiquette of life. Actually, let me rephrase that: By people, I mean 99.9 percent of San Diego State students. As if I already didn’t hate waltzing around on campus four days a week as it is, the masses of people I am forced to share sidewalk space with have to completely and utterly irritate the hell out of me now too.
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I am full of lard, beer and tequila. I am covered with immaculate bruises and swollen bug bites. My body is sore and my only recollections of the weekend are smeared with loud laughter and sunshine. Basically, I went to Mexico this weekend ... again.
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I may have signed my own death certificate at the beginning of the semester. My John Hancock on the last page of a lease agreement means that I will be living within walking distance of San Diego State for the next nine months.
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Exactly 21 years ago in Huntington Beach, a strapping young lad by the name of David William Pope was brought into this world. That’s right ladies and gentlemen; today is my 21st birthday. Now before you start cheering and rioting in the streets in celebration (which I fully encourage you to do later), I’m sure you’re all wondering what you can get me. Lucky for you, I’ve included a list of things I would enjoy:
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I used to have two pet rats when I was a kid. Call me crazy for owning two animals with long, nasty, hairless tails, but Stormy and Cinnamon were the loves of my pre-pubescent life. Yeah, don’t judge me. You all know you owned a smelly guinea pig or a pet hamster at least once during your childhood.
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A recent phone call from my sister unearthed some big news: I am going to be an uncle. A baby boy will soon join the ranks of my family, which is especially exciting considering I’m my sister’s only sibling. This means that I, a morally confused San Diego State student, will be in the position to greatly influence a young person’s life. The idea of me being a role model may concern some, but let me say, with my help, this child is going to be awesome.
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I recently started the most successful rumor about myself on Facebook: I got engaged to a bearded 30-something-year-old man who none of my friends had ever met before. It’s the best relationship I’ve never been in.
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It’s story time, kids. Gather around. I’m going to take you back to that fateful night, freshman year in the Zura residence hall, when my innocence was shattered forever.
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Everyone knows a dog is a man’s best friend. Actually no, I take that back. I really can’t say I do and I assume this is because I do not have a canine companion. This is because, one, I can barely take care of my own life much less a four-legged critter that relies on me for a daily dose of Purina; and two, my roommate’s 27-pound cat bears more resemblance to a dog than the coyote that snatched Jessica Simpson’s Malti-poo. However, I realize that the age-old adage possesses a substantial amount of credibility.
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Let me preface this whole Back Page by letting you know that I go to Mexico almost every other weekend. But it’s all right, I was raised by ninjas, so I’m really good at dodging bullets. I’ve also become completely desensitized to the gruesome killings of Americans that don’t take place there.
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I don’t date. Some people find this weird; what broke college girl wouldn’t want to go out for dinner and drinks without having to shell out a dime? No, thank you. I’d rather pay my own way.
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As someone who dislikes almost everything, but doesn’t throw around the word “hate” too often, I can say with conviction that I hate MTV. That being said, I have to admit I kind of look forward to the Video Music Awards every year. Why? I don’t know. Probably the same reason Tyler Perry keeps getting paid millions of dollars not to be funny — it just doesn’t make sense.
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Has anyone else been attacked by fire ants on the hill by the turtle pond? It’s happened to me not once, but twice. It’s horrible. It fully ruins the Eden-esque vibe I dig so graciously on the grass knoll near the turtle pond.
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I stopped subscribing to Cosmopolitan a while ago. I know, I know, with all the Q & A’s on how to get the best underarm shave and those throw-your-head-back-in-uproarious-uncontrollable-laughter sex bloopers, you’re probably wondering why I would ever think to stop it from depleting my checking account for the subscription — aka “my happy hour money” — for its services.
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Head teetering side-to-side, eyes half shut, the echo of a lone voice becoming fainter ... If any of this sounds familiar, congratulations, you’ve fallen asleep in class before, which is a honored university tradition. Whether trying to sleep off the previous night’s debauchery or the professor’s drone is akin to three TYLENOL PMs, there’s nothing wrong with trying to catch some extra Z’s.
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So I know I teased a running diary from our trip to the Rose Bowl in the last football preview, but I’m sorry to say nothing really happened. We drove up, harassed The Daily Bruin, filmed “Overtime” and went home. I’m sorry.
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I can’t name one person who likes moving. Sure, everyone likes getting a new place, but they hate moving. Everyone does, it’s a known fact, especially if you’re a student.
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Waiter, retail assistant and store clerk are three different jobs I’ve held with one thing in common: dealing with the incoherent public. All of these jobs emphasize customer service, which best I can tell means accommodating those with entitlement issues. Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful to be working in a grocery store that pays relatively well. Likewise, I know people are expected to be catatonic because nearly everyone shops while on auto-pilot.
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Oh yay, it’s the fourth day of classes. If you are a freshman and are utterly excited to finally be away from mommy and daddy don’t worry kids, this feeling will be short-lived once you realize you’re failing half of your classes from partying too hard at the fraternities.
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When new classes are starting, most of us aren’t worried about our professors. We already found their easiness rating online, so we’re good in that department. We don’t sweat getting books or other generic school supplies either because we all know what the first day of class is really about. No, not the unveiling of the newest syllabi or class “clicker” technology. It’s the anticipation of seeing how hot your new classmates are (hopefully.) And as hard as it may be to believe, I have even taken some “dud” classes at San Diego State that were full of gorgeous women.
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Aztecs, I can safely say that I am not scared of many things. Heights are OK and no spider stands a chance against the business end of my Swiffer. But, as my mom informed me that we would be road-trippin’ to visit family for the weekend, my palms began sweating and my heart raced the way only the San Diego State men’s basketball team can.
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Yesterday was my dad’s favorite holiday. Some of you may be familiar with it, as many dads really seem to enjoy it. It’s what he likes to call “The Saddest Day of the Year.” The last day of summer break. Few things excite him more than being able to ridicule me all day about going back to school. This year was especially enjoyable for him because my sister and I both start school today, so it was a “Double Saddest Day of the Year.”
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I know what you all are thinking right now after reading the title: “Here she goes again with another one of her damn Vegas stories like she thinks she’s cool or something.” Calm down, people; my summer has consisted of other things aside from going to Vegas and stalking people on Facebook all day. When I figure out what those things are, though, I’ll let you all know.
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Twitter. Twitter. Twitter. The buzz grows; the fad continues. I’ll admit I jumped on the bandwagon to see what the big deal was. I now “tweet” on an obnoxiously regular basis. I joined for the same reason everyone else joined: a chance to have your voice heard and an opportunity to spread your wisdom and thoughts. No, I’m just kidding. I joined for the same reason you did: to meet chicks and self-promote. Right? I’ve been on Twitter for a of couple months now, and I’ve made some observations about the ridiculous “types” of people you might come across.
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So, I finally saw “The Hangover” last week. Yeah, I know what you all are probably thinking right now, “WTF? I didn’t know that movie was still out in theaters!”
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Greetings! I’m coming to you from the Marriott’s Maui Ocean Club Resort in Hawaii, or as I like to call it, “Jailbait Island.” Yes, I’m on vacation with my family right now and let me tell you, there are more 15-year-old Midwestern girls here than at a Miley Cyrus concert in Milwaukee. (Zing!) But, I know what you’re all thinking: “Marriott Resort? Nice name-drop, Pope. You must think you’re a pretty big deal.”
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Grocery shopping sucks. You know it. I know it. Just about every aspect of it is terrible.
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On any given Thursday night there’s a 75 percent chance you will find me at Moondoggies (aka Dude-Doggies, aka Line-Doggies) in Pacific Beach. The following is a true story that happened a few weeks ago on such a magical Thursday night.
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I’ve always found it kind of odd that NBA players make so much money — and so much more than even the man at the top: President Barack Obama.
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Before I start, I’d like you all to keep in mind that I’m writing this early in the morning of seis de Mayo, so the aroma of tacos, limes and shame is dominating my house.
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I know I’ve already written once about groups of girls at bars I hate, but I was at a few Pacific Beach bars this weekend and it’s obvious I missed a few.
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Swine flu? Really? C’mon now. Don’t you think we, as a country, have enough on our plate? First, President Barack Obama has to deal with a historic economic crisis, banks are failing left and right, pirates … what’s next? Monkey Cough? Ant Hepatitis? The poor guy can’t catch a break. Either way, this swine crap is beginning to look kind of serious. It’s really starting to spread on a global level, too. I can’t believe that it’s actually killing people. That is one way I do not want to go. I never want a doctor to explain to my family that my cause of death can all be traced back to a dirty little piglet who had the sniffles.
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Hello there. Come gather around and let me tell you a tale … One morning last week my friend, whom we’ll call Joe, for privacy issues, was in his living room with his roommates and a handful of visitors, laying around, being college guys, mentally preparing themselves for the academic day that lay ahead of them. During the lethargic chuckles and general contentedness, there was a knock on the door.
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Well, the time has come, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the big debut of my mailbag column. Although, I’m thinking I need to rename it: “Girls write in and tell me I’m funny.” Now, far be it for me to complain about such a thing. In fact, this is great. Until someone complains about me, I’m forced to assume I really am as all-encompassingly awesome as I thought. Anyway, these are real e-mails from real readers:
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As graduation lurks around the corner, I have been frantically reflecting on my educational investment. As a business major I feel well-equipped with copious amounts of business jargon to awe and woo potential employers. I have diligently acquired the skills necessary to leverage my degree and produce business results. Statistically speaking, graduating in what is said to be the worst job market since the Great Depression actually increases my ROI (return on investment).
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There is one in almost every classroom. It’s that one person who, as soon as he or she opens that mouth of his or hers, you feel their obnoxiousness weighing down your soul. Everyone moans a collective groan and rolls their eyes in unison, but this person just doesn’t stop.
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I hate admitting this — mainly because I sound like a cheap floozy who wears six-inch heels and likes to show off her “Britney,” but I have an irrefutable obsession with Las Vegas. Since I turned 21 it’s likely that I have visited the city of sin more times than Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan have visited a jail cell for DUIs and possession of illicit drugs combined.
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Right off the bat, I’m starting a new periodic section for this column: “Things I hate about my generation.” And here we go:
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We’re going to Quentin Tarantino this article. I’m going to start with the ending and we’ll work our way through and show how it got to that point.
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There have been a lot of random things running through my mind lately: Why isn’t the word phonetic spelled phonetically? Do hypochondriacs ever fear they have hypochondria? Why do I hate having hiccups, but love laughing my ass off at other people struggling with them? These thoughts and many other useless ideas have culminated together into one big question: What the hell am I doing with my life?
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A very year, people from all over the world enroll at San Diego State, pissing off thousands of denied applicants from SoCal who shame their parents because they’re forced to attend a junior college, or worse, Cal State Fullerton.
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I like football way too much. OK, maybe I just like the Green Bay Packers too much. Alright, in all honesty, I just like Aaron Rodgers too much. My Ducks are about to take on their arch rival, the Sharks (from the land of fail known as NorCal), in the first round of the NHL playoffs, yet I was more excited for the release of the NFL schedule on Tuesday.
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I’m a grown-up, it’s true, and part of being a grown-up is doing your own laundry. I have the misfortune of not owning a washer and dryer, so I have to go down to the laundromat about a block away and fight with the rest of the locals for a working washer and dryer. As much as I’d love to go to the laundromat, bump into a pretty girl washing her lingerie, make a witty joke about laundry then be happily ever after from there, the reality is a little different.
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I’ve always wanted to have a superpower. I mean, seriously, how legit would it be to fly to class or prevent aging and stay in college forever or even possess projection: “the ability to make your thoughts become reality,” according to www.superherodb.com. Life would simply become one field day after another, and my childhood dreams of making sweet, passionate love to Tyra Banks would soon be realized.
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As destination Tijuana becomes increasingly dangerous, fraternity and sorority thrillseekers are searching for more unregulated debauchery to get their fix. Well, I say there’s no better place than Las Vegas.
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I love bars. I love girls. But I hate girls at the bars. But you say, “Hey Steven, I’m a girl. I go to bars. Do you hate me?” I say, “Yes, yes I do.” OK maybe I don’t hate you, but rather the group of girls you fit into while you’re at the bar. The group I hate the most: girls attending, “Girls’ Night Out!”
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Every year, people from all over the world enroll at San Diego State. This column is for my favorite group of out-of-town students: my fellow Bay Area natives who find themselves to be students at SDSU. I know not everyone moved here from Northern California, but I’ve met more people from there than anywhere else.
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For the past several years, I’ve filled out an NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament bracket in hopes of being crowned the March Madness “King”— at least among my friends. We always throw in a little financial incentive (not a bet, because that would be illegal) but to be perfectly honest, I’m mainly concerned about the bragging rights that come with winning any and all of our pools. Taking my friends’ money is just the cherry on top — and a bad excuse for a visit to a strip club.
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Since I was about four years old my father always told me, “Son, if you ever write a humor column for The Daily Aztec, never suggest that you’ll mention your friends’ names if they ask you to.” Unfortunately, that’s some advice I did not heed. This is just like the time he told me to stay away from white women. He was right about that, and he’s right about this.
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It all started last Tuesday night when my most regular partner in crime and I were in the abode of some acquaintances we acquired while marauding around in the ocean; fellow travelers of the wave, if you will.
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Holidays are weird — they don’t make much sense to me. But, we love them. Some are religious and others are just elaborate excuses not to go to work on a particular day (I’m talking about you, Arbor Day). People blindly fall in line with traditions on these days. It seems like no one ever questions why they celebrate a holiday the way they do. Almost all the customs and routines I was raised with hardly make sense to me.
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Last week, David Pope, along with Sports Editor Edward Lewis and Assistant Photo Editor Glenn Connelly went to Las Vegas to cover the Mountain West Conference Tournament. This is a recap of those days’ events.
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The special time of year that helps signify the start of spring is finally upon us. The sun is shining, the grass is green and I’m paying $8.50 for just one bottle of Coors Light. It’s that time when you see diving catches, walk-off homeruns and the occasional streaking fan. That’s right people, it’s baseball season.
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For some odd reason, I feel obligated to write about the bushy part of a man’s upper lip. That’s right, I’m talking about the manliest part of a man’s face, the mustache. After some in-depth research and analysis, I have come to the conclusion that the month of March has far more to offer than green beer, shiny beads and a lousy basketball tournament. In fact, research suggests the month of March is nationally the manliest month of the year.
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Surfing sucks. The media trying to convince you that it’s cool is the same as them trying to tell you that Jessica Biel’s body is what every woman’s should look like and that Valentine’s Day is a real holiday. There’s nothing cool about surfing. Only losers surf.
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So I just got back from a night downtown, and let me tell you something: If you think being a fifth wheel is bad, try being a ninth wheel.
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It’s not every day when you run into something great, and trust me, it is even more rare that you run into something amazing. But sometimes, when you aren’t looking for these diamonds in the rough, they just end up coming to you — much like when you are in a relationship and every girl or guy suddenly wants you.
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March. It’s that time of year again. Because I’m not a fan of basketball, I am definitely not referring to March Madness, nor am I referring to the drunken stupor that is St. Patty’s Day. I’m also not about to reference the one whole week at the end of the month that we are allotted to sit around in a state of intoxication and not have to worry about midterms or whether or not your professor gave a pop quiz the day you slept through your alarm.
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I’ll never forget sitting on the playground at recess with the boys, planning out our futures. We would become professional athletes, earn butt-loads of cash and inevitably end up lounging in a mansion somewhere with a Playboy Bunny wife. Needless to say, now that I’m a little older, I’m pretty sure none of those dreams are going to pan out.
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It’s been a month and a half since I’ve started writing these things every week and I’m already completely out of ideas for things to write about.
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Academia is ruining my life. This realization hit me over the holiday break when I saw some friends for the first time since high school. We went to a party where the beer and hard liquor flowed like water and with the good ol’ Captain fueling my night, we reminisced of past times. However, while I was recalling our old times together, my pirateness ended when I noticed all of my friends staring at me in confusion.
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I remember a simpler time. It was … before MySpace and Facebook. Before energy drinks and iPods. When steroids were still considered “cool,” when Zima flowed like wine, when Diddy was Puffy, when Bill Clinton was president, and when boy bands were annoying. A lot of things have changed since those glorious days of the ‘90s.
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David Pope, Assistant Sports Editor
Is it just me, or was Nancy Pelosi wearing a Snuggie during President Barack Obama’s speech on Tuesday night? I think it was sage, though I would have gone with burgundy. By now, some of you are saying to yourselves, “Pope, what the hell? That was your Facebook status from the other night. Are you just recycling your material?’
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It was raining. I definitely had my share of “consumption” for the night, as people started to leave the once-crackin’ house party. Some left through the front door, others the garage. The really plastered partygoers drunkenly hopped over the urine-soaked back fences because they could’ve sworn they heard someone yell, “Cops!” And there I was. Standard-issue plastic red cup in hand with only a swig left. Just as that sweet, sweet concoction was about to grace my palette, it hit me — I have to walk home. Weak.
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I go to the supermarket once a week, and every single week it’s the exact same freakin’ routine: bread, fruits and vegetables, drinks, pasta and pie, dairy products and eggs, chips and salsa and finally the frozen-food aisle. Then, I step up to the checkout counter, drop a hundo like it’s hot and proceed with my day.
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I have this weird fixation with the “In An Absolut World” ads and commercials. Don’t ask me why, because the only valid reason I have to offer is that I am easily amused by anything that is shiny or can hold my attention span for more than five seconds — and they do both.
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Have you ever wanted to go back in time and advise yourself to do things differently? Or to adjust your life for the better and change the world in a positive way? Well snap out of it, idiot. That’s not possible; stop living in a dreamworld. Still, if I could, this is the note I would give my fourth-grade self.
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Just a few weeks into his first term, newly elected President Barack Obama, has so far proven his campaign of peace, love and "change" shall hold strong throughout his presidency, at least so far.
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More than a month ago, I had the lovely pleasure of spending the weekend at my parents’ house. And what a glorious weekend it was, getting the chance to sleep on my flimsy air mattress, drink my parents’ beer and last but certainly not least: clean out the dreaded spare bedroom.
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I don’t know how to ride a bike. There! I said it — Gah!
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I need to finish this column in a hurry; I still haven’t done my “25 Facts” note on Facebook. So far I only have two: 1) I don’t trust white women or anyone from NorCal, and 2) I have had impure thoughts about Erin Esurance (the cartoon character from those insurance commercials).
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Here’s the deal: I don’t want your stinkin’ flyer. I don’t want to go to the wannabe underage party. I don’t want to help the environment. I don’t want to sign the petition. But, I do. And it’s horrible. I don’t think I’m that nice of a person. I can’t say patience is on my top-10 list of personality traits. Then why must I always do this to myself?
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It might just be me, but watching a nine-month pregnant M.I.A. who was doing more wobbling than swaggerin’ around stage, accompanied by the “rap pack,” isn’t exactly the way I wanted to spend a rainy Sunday night. Some may argue that Kanye West’s new greasy “I am more famous than Elvis” fro stole the attention — but I still blame that hideous polka-dot unitard that was M.I.A.’s black and white bumblebee-esque ensemble.
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Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. And because she was beautiful, she had to say goodbye to her king father and queen mother and went to the only place in the whole kingdom where she could possibly belong: San Diego State.
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From an early age, I’ve taken the expression of “not feeling comfortable in your own skin” literally. When I was seven, I covered my entire face with my mother’s radiant red lipstick.
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Welcome to college. If you’ve been here for more than a half-hour, you have more than likely noticed that drinking is a big thing around these parts. And knowing us college kids, we will go to great and shameful lengths to participate in any activity that involves drinking
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San Diego State is a stand-up institution. A personification of our school would wear suits to class and donate blood every time Red Cross was on campus. It has one of the best schools of journalism in the state, a flourishing Greek system, a picture perfect location and a multitude of brochure worthy student organizations.
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As much as I hate to admit this, I have a secret obsession with infomercials. They are kind of like a car accident. You know, so incredibly horrifying, yet for some reason you just can’t seem to turn your head away from the sight of it.
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I’ll never forget the first time my heart was broken. The musical therapy of Toni Braxton’s “Unbreak My Heart” helped me to get through the storm, but I yearned for the day my clothes would dry.
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Hosting a party definitely has its downsides. For one, having a bunch of people in the comfort of your home, some of whom are complete strangers, can definitely be overwhelming and eerie.
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Rachel Calkins, Staff Columnist
Once upon a time, there was a young squirrel with a particularly bushy tail. Bushy, the squirrel’s father, was once the king of the forest and even as a baby rodent, Bushy Junior knew he too would someday rule the kingdom of West Forest.
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The day I was born there was a tragic oil spill that not too many people have heard about. No creatures were harmed, but to this day, the S.S. Short-Term’s residue lingers and has oddly enough only increased in mass. This steadfast oil slick has flourished in the past 20 years and it happens to span the distance between my right and left ears.
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Winter break is a time for traditions and pastimes: holidays with the family, college bowl games and of course, the greatest tradition of all, going home and hooking up with your ex from high school.
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I don’t want to say good-bye, but this is it. I’m not ready to leave college. According to the requirements necessary to graduate with a bachelor’s degree, I’m set to go, but I’m not willing to just yet. There’s still so much that interests me that I want to learn about, and it doesn’t matter if I have to go through more than 15 weeks of it or put up with writing papers or studying for exams — I want to stay.
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Get ready for polar bears with frosted mugs, it’s Christmas! This Yule-infested holiday is loosely based on: lies (to children), deforestation (in the name of shiny tinsel and pine-scented homes), obesity (all holiday recipes require at least one stick of butter) and awfully repetitive, mind-numbing music (pop stars, please put down the recording equipment and stop the madness).
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I’m not antisocial. I’d like to think I’m pretty outgoing, maybe even too outgoing. I’m the girl who cracks jokes in class to the bitter end, regardless of how many frat boys turn around just to glare at me and my sense of humor. Some people laugh and those are the people that I usually make friends with.
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Aside from being told, “Your cookies gave Santa diabetes,” the worst comment to hear is, “Be realistic.” When no one thought a human could be made into a kite, the sport of parasailing was invented.
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I did it again, Aztecs. My constant quest to find a good time and, in turn, hopefully find myself, has brought me to a place I never thought I’d come to. Welcome to Sobriety, population: Me.
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One of the fundamental life lessons I’ve learned since entering college is accountability. It’s a lesson that seemingly requires profound levels of maturity and self-awareness, which are two aspects that have been rejected by a few highly-successful professional athletes such as “Sugar” Shane Mosley, Marion Jones and Barry Bonds.
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For those of you who haven’t heard, Somali pirates are taking over the world. OK, maybe not the entire world, but parts of it. Expensive parts.
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I most recently had the pleasure of having my butt go numb on the three-hour drive back home in my 1988 Volvo station wagon (with broken springs in the driver’s seat). The tingling cheeks were definitely worth it to return to my star-studded and cultured home of Los Angeles. I’d hate to admit it, but after a few months I start to miss seeing the hoards of girls strutting around Hollywood & Highland like they are on “The Hills.”
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It’s a difficult thing, moving to a different country when you’ve just become a teenager. The impetus of the shock of having to live and assimilate into a new culture is not as cumbersome as when you’re an adolescent.
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Looking for parking at San Diego State is as maddening as if “Star Wars” was made into an animated TV series based solely on the character of Jar Jar Binks. After almost an hour of demolition-derby-driving and no parking spot in sight, I transform from a preacher of peace and love to a promoter of Social Darwinism. In response to more than three years of wasting precious Wii playing-time circling around parking lots, I’ve devised a plan.
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I’m currently involved in an imaginary relationship with a girl in one of my classes, and I have to admit, it isn’t going well.
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While getting ready to check out of our hotel room two Sundays ago, my family and I found ourselves glued to the tube by a rerun of James Cameron’s “Titanic.” We picked up from the scene where Jack, played by my childhood (and adult) crush Leonardo DiCaprio, confronts Rose, portrayed by the talented Kate Winslet, on how scared she is to break away from the constraints of the upper-class world.
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Each semester we start anew. We have new schedules, new professors, new classmates and new routes to new classes. Eventually we find consistency and familiarity in our new schedules and it all becomes repetitive and routine. Before long you can guess which bikes will be parked at the bike rack by Aztec Center, who’s working at the East Commons Aztec Shop before your lit class and which guy will be rushing out of Parking Structure 4 blaring some Ludacris or Chingy song with the windows down.
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Coffee entered my life at a very young age. As a kid, the peer pressure to stay awake for TGIF and still be expected to wake up for Saturday morning cartoons was as difficult as admitting that “MMMBop” is one of my favorite songs.
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"Life’s a wedding. Crash it.” If you’re unfamiliar with this catchphrase or simply need a quick refreshment, it’s from my all-time favorite movie, “Wedding Crashers,” a 2005 comedy about two men who crash weddings to meet and sleep with women.
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As soon as your eyelids peel apart and you let the sun ricochet off the walls of your skull, you realize you have a headache. You groan, you roll over, you cling to your pillow for comfort as the night floods back to you in one big smack on the forehead. You don’t think you’re nauseous but when you stand up to check — no, definitely not going to make it out of this morning alive.
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I was mere weeks from recovering from my Post-Traumatic Strike Disorder after the 100-day writers strike, before the possibility of an actors strike ensued. On June 30, the Screen Actors Guild’s contract with the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers expired, and until now, a new contract has yet to be signed. “Actors strike” is as lethal a combination of words as “game over” or “mission failed” is to hard-core gamers.
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Because of our country’s economic downturn and gas being expensive as all hell, the last couple of months I’ve been getting to and from school via San Diego’s public transit system. I bought a pass that lasts all year and I have to say, it has been working out pretty well.
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Ever since I was a kid, sports have been my life. For starters, my favorite television show is SportsCenter and my aspiring tattoo is the Dodgers’ LA symbol embroidered with purple outlining and gold filling. If that’s not enough, perhaps my license plate frame best portrays the sentiment: “Nothing matters but sports.”
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I hate Urban Outfitters. “Why?” you ask. “I love Urban Outfitters! Their stuff is so cute!” That’s the general response to my hatred.
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Every four years, the Olympic Games fill viewers’ digital video recorder space. Athletes incapable of waiting their turn participate in synchronized diving, while rhythmic gymnasts attempt to perform as gracefully as Frank the Tank. February has long been separated from the 29th day of the month, but every four years a leap is taken and the flame is rekindled.
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The first time it happened was in January of 2006. It was a wonderful start of something new for me and the three other guys involved. As much as we enjoyed it, we knew society wouldn't understand. None of us would admit it, but there was a fair amount of shame to go along with the unadulterated pleasure we received from our newfound love.
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Hate is a strong, ugly word. I’ve always made a conscious effort to avoid using it casually (though it seems to pop out whenever I’m discussing my esteemed Sports Editor, Edward Lewis). So I hope when I say, “I hate Boston,” you don’t assume I’m using any sort of hyperbole, because I really, really hate Boston.
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I just sank my teeth into a delicious Snickers bar, and am thinking to myself that if an award for the best chocolate candy bar in the whole galaxy existed, I would rush to vote for this particular one. Before you start neighing like a horse and dispute that it could easily be bested by other ones, your argument will fall on deaf ears.
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I’ve spent the last few weeks in deep thought over a pressing matter currently affecting a vast majority of people. Very soon, a vital decision will need to be made and it is very important for people to be aware of all the issues beforehand. Personally, I’m trying to decide between a character possessing honor and decisiveness and one with creativity and boldness.
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Oh holidays, the season of sharing, loving and gaining weight. Right? Everyone knows that winter is the scariest time of year for us gym rats.
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If you always listen to the media, you’d never cross the border into Mexico. The media, what a joke. This is the same “media’” that killed Princess Diana, remember? The media doesn’t know jack.
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The first time I heard the word “nonchalant” was in my junior year of high school. I’m not too sure of how I came across it exactly, but I think a fellow classmate had it as her username on a blog site. From then on, every time someone said “nonchalant” I pictured it dwarfing the other words in the sentence.
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Vacations are retirement test trials, and the tourism industry desires trips to last as long as it took Moses to find the Promised Land and then save Private Ryan. For travelers, fanny packs not only serve as mini backpacks, but act as human bumpers in the event of a fast paced run-in. While traveling safely, vacationers explore local attractions, taking as many photos as paparazzi take to make sure selling their souls doesn’t go to waste.
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Hello San Diego State, this is Kristina Peltin reporting from Costa Rica. Yes, you read right, reporting from Costa Rica. For those chepitos (nosy people) wondering why I’m here, you can refer to my Dating and Romance article from Aug. 28 at The Daily Aztec Web site: www.thedailyaztec.com.
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This is a public service announcement intended to improve the overall quality of life on campus. I’ve been noticing a few things that have been making it hard for me to show my sunny side. Up until now, I just figured these things would work themselves out as students wise up to campus life. Well, that hasn’t happened yet, so hopefully this will help.
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I turn 23 tomorrow. I am not dreading this. I’ve been looking forward to this since the day after I turned 22. This is not the primary reason, of course, but I get to indulge in any Cold Stone Creation that I want for free since I’m a member of their Birthday Club. Mmm...strawberry ice cream with graham cracker pie bits and white chocolate chips. Heaven, make a space for this little angel here, because she’s coming your way! Yeah, yeah, that was corny, but I figured I’d exercise my right as a birthday celebrant to put that in.
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A few weeks ago, my temptation to wear a muscle tee made me realize my books had become dumbbells with prose inside of them. From years of carrying my backpack on one side, my shoulders were as unbalanced as the justice in O.J. Simpson’s murder trail. After finding Simpson in bed with Lady Liberty, Lady Justice made sure his new collection of memorabilia would include an orange jumpsuit.
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Oh no, did you hear? I can’t believe it. It can’t be true! Louie’s Bar is closing! I can’t believe it. I said that already! They can’t close down Louie’s. They just can’t. There are already so few reasons to skip class once I’m already on campus, and Louie’s has been the best one for years. What do the suits upstairs think they are doing? I mean, this is a college campus. College. We can’t have more libraries on campus than we do pubs. Madness!
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Life’s milestones gave birth to Hallmark cards while “The Scarlet Letter” was the inspiration behind letterman jackets. One milestone I have been through countless of times is being engaged. The engagement lasts around an hour, until I have licked the ring pop to its core and have no use for it anymore. Graduation is a milestone, and at San Diego State, graduating in four years is as impressive as becoming a vice-presidential nominee when only having a small amount of experience.
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Did you know that San Diego State has ostriches? Yes, as in the creatures known to bury their heads in the ground when frightened, thinking that because they can’t see anything around them, they can’t be seen either. Fun fact: Ostriches don’t actually bury their heads. They lay it flat on the ground.
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Oh Palin. Palin, Palin, Palin. As I’ve been watching her the past few weeks in her attempt at interviews, the debate she just participated in and the brilliant Saturday Night Live skits mocking her, I’ve wondered, “Palin, how did you get to where you are?” Of course she can’t answer that question to; she’s too busy doing … wait, no really, how did she get where she is again?
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Disgust. Hatred. Murder. All of these things were prominent in my heart after 50 minutes of Geography 102. I arrived to class early and landed my favorite seat, back row, with the aisle to my right.
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If you're like half of my friends and you're a dude, then you are probably feeling the stress of week 5 in your fantasy football league. Now, you could have been like me and drafted Tom Brady in both your leagues as your first pick. Or, you could have been like my friend, who will remain unnamed, but has a very similar name to that of Benedict XVI, and drafted the entire Green Bay Packers' offense and defense because he thinks that they are God's football team to men.
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I remember one afternoon when I was grocery shopping with my mom. I was watching the cashier bag our items, when my eye caught her name tag. "Evelyn" was written in big, bold letters. My six-year-old self mentally examined my name, Ching Ching, which, at that time, I didn't know was just a nickname. Why did my parents have to give me such a kiddy name? Even at that age, I was already starting to worry about what future employers would say when they received a résumé from a certain Ching Ching Danganan. No one would take a person with that name seriously, I theorized. I thought I was doomed for good.
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