These questions are anything but mutually exclusive.

I’ve always wanted to be an intellectual.

I want to use that word because it conjures images of Paris in the 1920s, rather than words like nerd or geek which have the unending pejorative context of a 7th grade locker room confrontation.

‘Cause it sure is somewhere. Take the quiz!

Turns out you can buy class for just $9.99 a bottle.

The winter solstice is more than a month distant, and while the amount of sunlight we get each day is getting greater and greater, the winter itself is far from over. Next week we find out from the groundhog how much winter we have left this year, and we know he’s never right. East coasters are struggling through inches (or feet!) of snow, at times like this it seems that spring might never come. We thought we’d re-inaugurate the Friday Staff Survey with some uplifting tips for how to survive winter:
How do you banish the winter blahs?

After the feast of Thanksgiving, we are given a taste of the holiday and we just can’t let it go! But do we really need to?

When I tell a boy that I don’t drink this information is nearly always met with a perplexed look of dismissal.

Hi, my name is ‘Stine and I’m a blatant, unapologetic party queer. You can find me in groups or alone and, in fact, we’ve probably met before in the course of partying and being queer. Do you drink in D.C. at gay events and regularly keep the company of queers? Yeah, we’ve probably met. It’s okay if you don’t remember me and if you do and I don’t it’s okay too. Nothing personal, it’s just that I was really drunk when we met. Perhaps like you, I love to meet people and meeting the same person one, two, three times gives me a chance to refine making that oh so critical first impression. As you likely know, being queer is complicated sometimes, especially after one has been double fisting Natty Bohs for the last few hours. At the hour right before dawn, it can be exceptionally complicated. Are you familiar with that moment when you realize your night drunk is about to become a day drunk?

I instructed people to leave their shoes lined up in the hallway, certainly not for the sake of our brand new hardwood floors, but so that I could play Saint Nick and fill them all with little treats throughout the course of the party. Growing up, my siblings and I would wake up to find our frozen school shoes filled with chocolate coins, Hershey kisses and candy canes. Now adapting it as my own tradition, I just threw in whatever we had lying around—unwanted Butterfingers leftover from Halloween, pretzel sticks, vitamins, a spare cigarette, maxi pads, some loose change and Trojans. The next guests to arrive were George and Michael, our friends from the fashion marketing program at Parsons. Michael set down his Marc Jacobs shoulder bag and began to unwind his pashmina, before taking a look around and saying, “Well it wouldn’t be a hipster party if it didn’t smell like B.O.”

Dear Alcohol:

It’s time we had a little chat. We’ve been close friends for quite some time now. Over 15 years! Unfortunately, I don’t think I can keep up with you any longer. I love you to bits, but whenever you leave my system you leave me feeling really rough. It’s starting to bring me down a bit. Let me explain.

First off, your allure is so enticing. You come in so many shapes and forms, most of which are delicious. If you can recall, I first fell for you in the form of an amaretto sour. Remember those days, where I’d sip you down, under-aged, in a bar near GW’s campus where anyone with any photo ID could gain entry and partake of you? Remember how scared I was when that police officer walked in, and how he turned out to be picking up a carry-out order? That was great!