The Tufts Daily

I love Pitchfork because its writers are “poptimists” and rap enthusiasts; they take the things I enjoy seriously, but always leave room for melodrama and Camp. For these reasons, I couldn’t give it a more glowing review.

Whenever I return to my parents’ house, it’s like traveling back in time. My childhood room, filled with personal artifacts I can’t bring myself to throw away, seems to shrink every time I enter it. The whole setting doesn’t seem quite right. This new life I’ve been living on my own feels incongruous with everything here.

In her first speech as vice president-elect of the United States, Kamala Harris said, “while I may be the first woman to hold this office, I will not be the last.” It’s a reminder that the work of representation is not done: A first cannot be a last because there are so many more female and Black and South Asian and queer stories to tell.

There are going to be a lot of takes on the election, and from a political standpoint, I’m not sure I can be all that additive. From a personal standpoint, though, I will always recall the 2016 election and its aftermath as the background for the development of the nuanced political opinions and convictions that my peers and I now hold.

Every sad pop banger that takes itself seriously culminates in collapse. The restrained verse-chorus-verse-chorus decorum must break into a bridge of absolute desolation. The artist can no longer channel the emotions through clean precision; the fabric of the song tears in the same way you rip off a Band-Aid. It becomes a sort of glorious, self-gratifying mess.

The power of a long, meandering walk is often underestimated. Even before quarantine made walking one of the only things that kept me sane, it was still an important part of my life.

Celebrity culture, or “standom” as people call it these days, has always fascinated me. In this new world, artists aren’t mere mortals; they’re gods that people idealize and pay tribute to. Stars like Charli are within closer reach than they’ve ever been thanks to online platforms like Twitter and, in this case, Zoom.

Although I’ve been wary of social media for a while, the decision to actively regulate my usage was precipitated by “The Social Dilemma” (2020), a Netflix documentary centered around Tristan Harris, a former Google employee and cofounder of the Center for Humane Technology. He uses the ominous phrase “human downgrading” to describe the effect social media has on our minds, and has spent much of his career pushing tech companies like Facebook and Apple to adopt more ethical guidelines to govern their interfaces.

While most people have turned to gardening, baking or biking, my isolation projects have been more abstract. One of them is, in essence, an investigation that revolves around a single question: is there such thing as the perfect queer film?