Opinion

This flap on my fucking finger is killing me. It’s a triangular piece of skin that’s decided to lift itself off of my index finger for no reason. It’s like a rogue piece of skin, deciding to forge a new path away from the fascist regime that was the corner of my nail.

I had a crisis last week when I realized that all of the contemporary Chinese-American fiction writers I can think of are immigrant women, with the exception of Ha Jin. I noticed this after I’d turned in my short story last week, told from the perspective of a Chinese-American immigrant woman talking about the Cultural Revolution.

With oil still spewing into the Gulf of Mexico from the wreckage of a BP oilrig, speaking well of oil drilling seems like a losing proposal. The ruptured oil well has caused a great deal of harm to ecosystems and wildlife, and it has also considerably harmed BP and the economy in general. No wonder Big Oil has become a dirty word.

You know the three I’m talking about. We’ve all heard them. Some of us have no problem letting our inner emotions flower upon declaration of these words. Others fear them, terrified of their implications, connotations and meanings.

I left my heart in San Francisco. Then it went to Texas. Now, it’s in Chicago, dodging rats the size of German Shepherds and eluding the mob.

I’m standing by a Whole Earth Festival booth filled with interesting, exotic-looking jewelry. I’m debating whether or not to buy an overpriced necklace. There are approximately 15 girls surrounding the tiny tent, eager to get a glimpse at the various items on display.

I’ve written before about how differences of opinion between my father and I can sometimes make our political discussions … tumultuous.

The U.S. Supreme Court signaled last month that there may be a future for California’s overturned law banning the sale of violent video games to minors.

The Student Farmworker Alliance protested last week to put pressure on Sodexo, the campus dining service, to support farmworkers’ rights. The alliance is urging Sodexo to work with the Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW) in order to agree on a payment increase.

A mere three months ago, several UC Davis students lost a close friend in a drunk driving accident. Avi Schaefer was a 21-year-old freshman at Brown University, his life filled with such rare passion that his story has been filtered through various forms of media.

A particularly odd thing happened to me this weekend at Whole Earth. I was strolling along Sunday afternoon, headed toward Voorhies Hall to see if my bike was where I had left it the night prior. As I strolled, I heard the rustling of newspaper and looked down to see page two of last Thursday’s Aggie blow right past me in the pre-storm breeze. It was kind of eerie, watching myself drift in effigy off campus and into A Street.

To hear some girls talk, you’d think that every guy on the face of the planet is a conniving, black-hearted, candy-stealing blaggard who doesn’t brake for furry woodland creatures. I’d point out that they’re probably barking up the wrong trees, but people tend to not like hearing that they indirectly screw themselves over.