Mental illness has always been awash in taboo, a clingy and darkening word that turns an essential health problem into a malignant and vile creature.
Five years ago, 49 individuals lay motionless on a nightclub floor.
Sunday evening, I found myself curled up on my bathroom floor.
“Rip Young Dolph.”
When I first committed to UB, I was worried I had made the wrong choice.
I’ve worn a lot of hats in my life. I’ve stocked shelves and cashed out customers. I’ve tightened turnbuckles and chipped rust. I’ve cooked steak and fried fries. I’ve loaded trucks and supervised outbounds in warehouses. I’ve baked donuts for the Tim Hortons in the SU.
In the world’s eyes, I am lazy.
I love Christmas music. I listen to it year-round. My friends groan when they get into my car in July and Sia’s “Candy Cane Lane” is blasting from my speakers.
College has taught me that everyone is going through something — and that more often than not, we don’t have the slightest clue.
As time flies by, I can’t help but notice the different paths my friends have taken. With every passing year, we’ve all matured into someone wiser — but have also grown further apart.
The UB Curriculum can and should be heavily critiqued, from its imbalanced requirements between STEM and non-STEM degrees, to its failure to deliver on the ways a UB Seminar will benefit you.
Five years ago, as I readied to go to school one morning, I had a major problem.
I love being young. That may seem unusual, but I love having a fully functioning body, non-graying hair (although with my genetic luck, that will be short-lived) and the promise of endless possibilities.
Excitement quickly turned to panic among the thousands of fans gathered in Oklahoma City’s Paycom Arena to watch an NBA matchup between the local Thunder and Utah Jazz last March.
Every UB student has a goose story. Maybe you almost hit a goose driving to class because it wouldn’t get out of the road. Maybe a particularly aggressive goose built its nest outside of your dorm building a few years back
Geese-haters are hypocrites. Everything that students get mad at the geese for, they do themselves.
In late August, I arrived at Buffalo Niagara International Airport with two luggage-filled bags and loads of anticipation.
In the fall of eighth grade, Friday nights meant eating too much popcorn, attempting new makeup looks and secretly watching Mean Girls in my best friend’s basement. My friends and I talked for hours about boys who didn’t know we existed, discussed Halloween costume ideas and stalked celebrities on social media accounts our parents didn’t know we had. It was my turn to receive a makeover, and all was well — until one girl scrolled onto a post about National Hispanic Heritage Month.
Solutions by The State News
