Samantha Brunn is a senior journalism and political science double major and American Studies and Spanish double minor from Wooster, Ohio. She is the editor-in-chief of The Miami Student, where she spends a majority of her time cleaning up the g*ddamn TMS office. Before becoming EIC, Samantha was a news editor and has written for TMS since her first week at Miami. Samantha spent last summer as a press intern in Washington D.C., and she hopes to attend law school post-undergrad. When she’s not stressing over TMS, the LSAT or law school applications, Samantha can be found watching the Bachelorette, baking cookies for her housemates, or telling drunks kids to recycle their beverage containers. She hopes TMS’ readers are registered to vote, but if not they can register online here.
I told my cousin about how my housemates and I often take turns cooking meals for one another, and it’s a rare occasion when we don’t end up eating our meals together. “You’re kidding me,” she said, incredulous. “You guys actually do that? I don’t even share groceries with my housemates.”
I wasn’t ready for the end of NBC’s hit series “The Good Place.” I mean, when my housemate told me the title for the series finale was “Whenever You’re Ready,” I started crying, knowing what was in store.
Adam Sizemore sits in the dark. Down a narrow hallway of the Physical Facilities Department, behind a heavy door wired to a buzzing lock — one that can only be opened when an administrative assistant is at the window — Miami University’s Sustainability Director leans back in his office chair. The low afternoon sunlight comes through the blinds, dusting pieces of the room, the rest in comfortable shadow. “I figure, why waste electricity, right?” he said.
“Tiene hambre?” Are you hungry? I snapped back to reality after spacing out as I watched a group of four and five-year-olds jump rope. “Sí, claro,” I said offhandedly. Of course I was hungry, all I’d had for breakfast was pancito — bread, made cuter with a -cito tacked on the end — with strawberry jam. And it was nearly 1 p.m. Juan opened his camouflage lunch box and rummaged around for a moment before he found what he was looking for. He handed me a mango, first inspecting it to make sure the small dent in its skin hadn’t damaged the inside of the fruit. Suddenly, I felt the need to hold back tears.
I distinctly remember the first Saturday night of my sophomore year. I was laying on the floor of my dorm room as the noise from raucous groups of kids walking Uptown toward whatever the night held seeped in through the open windows. I called my dad, tears rolling down my face. “This is going to be the same as last year,” I rushed to say as soon as he picked up. “I’m miserable.” After a first year filled with solo Netflix nights and enough studying to carry me through the rest of undergrad, I was terrified that the fact I didn’t have plans or friends to hang out with the first weekend back meant I was in for another lonely year.