3. Lion's Mane Jellies

Ever watched “Tom and Jerry”? It’s a show about a cat and a mouse fighting like cats and dogs instead (knee slapper). As a kid, it was one of my favorite shows. If you’ve never watched the show (woah) long story short, my 6 year old self would’ve told you “tom cat, jerry mouse, cat hit mouse, mouse outsmart cat”. Think about it though: why did they keep fighting? Considering that Tom always ended up getting embarrassed and physically hurt, and that there was the huge risk of being eaten involved for Jerry, wouldn’t it have logically made sense to make peace instead? Tom’s refusal to give up on catching Jerry likely stemmed from the identity that had been ingrained in him. Chasing mice was a part of his family’s history (they were all cats) and also part of his natural instinct (he’s a cat). Even though it literally went against the entire community’s interests, Tom kept trying to attack and eat Jerry to no avail, which at the end of the day left him with nothing and Jerry with the risk...

  “Hey, I’m an artist!”  It’s the first thing I tell people about myself, the easiest and most obvious thing to share. Artist is a title I can always rely on because I have always been one. From high-heeled stick figures to large canvas paintings of fruit, the dreams of my mind's eye have never failed me. However, as I traversed my way through high school (especially sophomore year), I found myself almost instantly dropping all of my creative endeavors. I quit classes, I stopped using my sketchbooks, and I couldn’t even bring myself to finish new drawings anymore. Not making art was horrible, yet I was so caught up with the rest of my life — schoolwork, socializing, stressing myself out, and all the other things a teenager would be concerned with — to notice. Only when I started writing personal statements (hooray for the enchanting world of summer applications!) did I realize just how much I had compromised this core part of me.  What is something unique about you that y...

Tv shows, movies, instagram reels, and youtube shorts, without them I don’t think I would survive. Recently–specifically over the weekend actually when I was “studying” for my Physics test–I opened up bflix.gg and started rewatching Friends. I know what you might be thinking, “Ranvir, are you jobless?! Ranvir do you have nothing better to watch?! Ranvir, get out of your parents era of tv shows!” Why? The tv show Friends is probably the most apt representation of life; it denotes the personalities of 6 friends as they figure out how to deal with life in their own ways and society relates to them way more than they care to admit.  Whether it’s a good thing or a questionable thing I believe I am the second coming of Chandler Bing. I am the definition of a hit or miss sense of humor, a fortress of sarcasm constructed to protect myself from the horrors of a judgmental society, and an inability to talk to a human being of the opposite gender.          ...

  Her purple braid flying behind her, Rumi sprints across the stage, her palms slick with sweat as her Sain-Geom is gripped in her palm. Her fingers clutching the smooth metal. She leaps, her energy stemming from the pads of her feet traveling through her legs, up her torso as she pivots, flinging her Sain-Geom at Gwi-Ma’s roaring fires.  She pushes. The flames push back. Harder, burning, incinerating her. The heat begins to cloud her vision, invade her lungs. She thrusts her sword against the fire as her palms beg her to stop. Her face, twisted in agony and determination, her muscles taut, till it all stops.  Suddenly, the heat, the burning rage of Gwi-Ma’s fire stops. It is replaced with a chest, no, not a chest, a human? Wrong again. Jinu, Rumi’s Jinu. His arms spread wide, his back to the flames, shielding Rumi from Gwi-Ma’s wrath. “No! J-Jinu” Rumi stutters, her hands slowly crawling towards her face in horror. Tears prick her eyes, dread filling her chest. “I wanted...

  Kickoff. My dad stepped off the plane with a backpack and duffel bag, hopeful and excited. He was only 21 but fulfilling his childhood dream of studying in the United States. While he opened his arms wide, the world (more like the residents of Chicago) didn’t always welcome him. Hate traveled faster than friendship. Loneliness weighed more than his overpacked luggage. Football was what saved him. At first, it was just background noise — students on campus shouted names he didn’t recognize. When he discovered Tom Brady, #12 and the quarterback for the New England Patriots, it became more than the touchdowns and Super Bowl wins. It was about belonging. For the first time, he could talk about something without being seen as an immigrant before anything else.  First quarter. With each raise at work, he bought Patriots merchandise — first a hat, then a jersey, and eventually a license plate for the car. Despite living in Fremont, a diverse city where cultures mix, divisions linge...

Everyday, I grab a slice of cold bread at 7 in the morning. I’ve got to prepare for school, and filling my stomach is the least of my worries. After I wolf down the large slice of bread within 5 minutes, I resume preparing for school. I used to snack on treats after coming home from elementary school. It used to be my favorite thing to do coming home from school, heating up corn dogs and dinosaur chicken nuggets. The ungodly fragrance of manufactured, processed food would fill up the room as I gorged myself on food (that would probably be the reason why I weigh about the same as I did 4 years ago). I feast on my mother’s dishes that she painstakingly prepared for dinner. The fragrant smell of even just rice coats the entire house, making me salivate. As I take another bite, I once again admire how hard she has to work to feed my family. I’ve always loved food. Food is something that has had so many fond memories for me. I remember the video of my first sandwich, my dad gleefully watchi...

  “I THINK, THEREFORE. I. AM!” A deranged man screams into my left ear. I stir my pelmeni. Add salt.  The green digital clock on the stove reads 5:10 a.m.; the man’s voice trembles and crescendoes as I fish the pelmeni out and deposit them onto a plate. 5:11 a.m.  I had wanted to listen to “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream” while I make breakfast and now I am doing just that, bare feet shifting on cold kitchen tile like I’m following a square dance to the tune of the soft buzzing light above the stove—the only light source I tend to allow to penetrate my comfortable morning darkness.  I listen as the characters get tossed around like dolls by the machine. The machine that claims sentience, the machine that claims it can think. I ask, can it?   Diligently switching off the light, I carry my bowl back to my room; the little seashell in my ear relays spite and despair. I switch on my machine. The monitor burns my retinas. “ think definition ” I type, and the machi...

  It’s 11 PM; my body is sweaty, aching, and tired, yet I still keep on going. After all, these pictures are not going to hang themselves. My Polaroid wall is something that I hold so dearly to my heart. They are the work of a chronically nostalgic person. The pictures that cover my wall serve as a physical document of my journey from middle school to high school (if  Y2K happened today, my Polaroids would serve as my timeline from child to young adult rather than my social media archives). I got my Polaroid on my thirteenth birthday, it was a surprise from my parents, and it is one of the best gifts I have ever received. My sister informed them that a pink Polaroid mini camera would be the perfect gift for the young Shari. Looking back, I would have preferred a black Polaroid as it matches my room and my overall aesthetic better. But hey, does anyone have the same aesthetic as they did when they were thirteen years old?  This camera quickly became my new favorite acce...

September 11, 2001, a day etched into American history, the worst foreign attack on US soil. 2,977 innocent men and women lost their lives due to religious extremists who thought the best way to show America who’s boss is by murdering innocent people. The horrific acts committed on that fateful day were swiftly met with resistance and anger. Within 1 month CIA operatives were working in Afghanistan to take down Al-Qaeda operatives, air strikes were being launched against key targets, and troops were deployed. America was at war.  But what if 9/11 was an inside job? What if the real enemy wasn’t the one killed in a compound on the outskirts of Abbottabad, Pakistan? What if we’ve been lied to and conned for the past 24 years? Before you dismiss what sounds to be the shower thoughts of a college drop-out conspiracy theorist still living in his mom’s basement, hear me out.    Larry Silverstein, the man who owned the World Trade Center signed the 99 year lease just 6 ...

My sister Rhea and I wanted to go to the Newark Library last Sunday. We got there at 11, courtesy of our dearest mother’s chauffeuring. However, when we arrived we discovered that the library only opens at 1. My mom, ever the mastermind, dropped us off at the Sujus on Stevenson Boulevard. She told us we could walk to the library later, which in hindsight feels like her subtle way of saying, “Get some exercise.” A little after noon, I checked Google Maps for the directions to the library. To my horror, it said the library was 3.5 miles away and would take an hour and twenty minutes to walk. My immediate reaction was absolutely not. My sister, on the other hand, acted like it was a casual stroll. Her response was fitting, considering she runs that distance every day at cross-country practice. I was not in the mood to hurt my ego, so I too agreed and just like that, we were off. It was hot and my Birkenstocks, which are insanely uncomfortable, made the trek around the suburbs feel like th...

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”  I’m sure this question has been asked of just about everyone at one point in time, and now that I’m in junior year of high school, this question is even more important to me than before. Most people would probably just answer with something like the lines of “doctor”, or “engineer”. I feel like that these types of answers are missing part of the question; these types of answers are too surface-level for the question that is being asked.  I believe that this question does not need to be a question of what your job will be; instead it is a question of the person you want to be in the future. A person is not just what their job is, each person is different, complex, with their own personality. Therefore, I feel like “doctor” is an insufficient answer. If you want to be known as a doctor, then so be it. But if you want to be known as a kind and virtuous person, then a doctor should not limit those kind and virtuous actions; they should a...

With the club rush this week, I’m sure many of you will be rushing to join new clubs (I’m hilarious, I know). I’m pretty sure almost every single underclassman is going to be inside the rotunda this week during lunch. Why? To explore their interests? You wish! It’s all for the “college apps”. I can’t even blame them, I did and sometimes even do things just so it looks good on my resume. Get good grades and standardized test scores. Get “leadership positions” in activities that you’re supposed to start at the age of 12…minutes. Write killer essays with the help of a $10,000 tutor. And then you’ll get into college! Or not - considering the acceptance rates today. I still love the American system though because I believe competition breeds creativity: who would have committed 20+ hours to extracurriculars without the threat of college applications? All this was before we added ChatGPT into the mix. I recently read this article from the Cornell Chronicle: “AI-generated college admissions...