Word: blockmateã
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It’s Friday, and the sun has set. You assess the options: Head to a sweaty rager in your blockmate??s teammate’s best friend’s sister’s suite, sneak into a party at the Advocate (of which you are not a member), go straight to the Kong, or cuddle up in bed with your Ec 10 textbook. No matter what you choose, you’ll likely remain close to home. Come to think of it, when was the last time you left Cambridge on a weekend night...
...blockmate urged me. As if still frozen from the previous night’s chilly River Run, I remained motionless and stared blankly at two over-eager gentlemen, clad in Pforzheimer gear. I was unable to take the envelope. They gently placed the death notice in my blockmate??s outstretched hand and assured us that everything would turn out well as the door closed. I whipped an already-beat Top-Sider at my poster-clad Pennypacker wall. After a year of scabies, long walks to Annenberg, and gazing at a parking-lot vista from my common room window...
...long ago, my blockmate??s father asked me a seemingly simple question over dinner: why am I a Democrat? I momentarily—and awkwardly—fell silent, knowing that “I guess I agree with most of their policies” would be an insufficient response, particularly after he had just explained his faith-based conversion to the Right. There I was, unable to find a larger and more compelling reason for choosing my defining political affiliation...
...said he asked her if she knew a “Mike Dupont,” and when Nagler said no, he proceeded to knock on her blockmate??s door...
...year untainted by cynicism or disappointment. Before long the cardboard would succumb to the rain and wilt; before long my blockmate would stay up too late, eat unhealthily, neglect her parents, become a stranger to the MAC. But in the interim the boat bounced down the street, and my blockmate??s list, spiky with exclamation points, shone at the corner of her desk...