Editors of magazines aren’t gods, but they have to be goddamn holy people to pick and choose who gets published and who does not; I believe that is the closest to divinity anyone could pray for. Editors spend long hours—receiving weak pay— attempting to understand the intent of the writer. But no text will ever perfectly reflect what the author intended.
Censorship doesn’t always look like burned books—in fact, I would argue that it rarely does. Censorship is far more insidious and innocuous than a library on fire; at least in this country, it is most often silence.
After checking out, I find my girlfriend. I imagine telling her, “If I’m actually a size bigger after all that work, I’ll kill myself.” I think of saying these words like I would say a joke. But I don’t, because we’d both know it isn’t.
For this art spread, members of the community and groups across campus (including SOSS, QCC, OrgasmiCC) collaborated to create images that reflect the personal experiences of intimacy.
Three hours into the morning, after crouching in the dirt and marinating in sweat, a series of thoughts began to surface: I hate beets. I loathe beets. Beets are the bane of my existence.
When my car hit the other, they were almost parallel, and they glided together in a metallic grip until the momentum shot my car off the road. Right before the sickening crunch, I closed my eyes and said, “No no no no.”
I shoved my way onto a crowded moving walkway, craned my neck upward, and there she was: El Virgen de Guadalupe. Within 30 seconds, the moving walkway ended, and she was no longer in sight. I was in a crowded church in Mexico City, where I was surrounded by hundreds of admirers, to get a good look at the tapestry where, legend has it, the Virgin of Guadalupe appeared in 1531.