Sarah Minkus
Sarah Minkus
Recent Stories
Even with 8.3 admit rate, Yale still full of SSPs
It’s getting to be that time of year. The groups touring Yale’s campus once again include people who don’t descend from a Chinese-lettered bus en masse.
Too lazy to work, too lazy to graduate, not too lazy to write column
Seniors have finally reached the moment in the college marathon when we can see the finish line. This could light a fire under my little baccalaureate butt. I could hammer out my senior essay like a barefoot Kenyan busting through the finish line tape. I could be The Roadrunner. Instead, I’m Wile E. Coyote.
It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s ... your wingman.
It was one of those text messages that you know you’ll save in your inbox for weeks to come: “OH MY GOD MY VAGINA”
Intercontinental lovestravaganza safari time
Nearly five months had passed since I’d been in the same room with Alex (or on the same continent, for that matter), so when I got off the final plane of my very long journey and saw my wonderful boyfriend in person for the first time, it was magical. It was fulfilling.
This year I will dodge Reading Week's wiles
There is no more convincing argument for abstinence than a few hours spent with the first graders of Fairfield County. I recently escaped the Yale Bubble for “the Country” (aka Westport) to go to my cousin’s sixth birthday party. While he himself is one of the most adorable children on the planet (his younger sister being the other), his cohorts make me want to focus on my career and decorate all future apartments with lots of sharp corners and white carpets.
Gloria and the Murph, honorary Minkuses
Hopefully this will not destroy my credibility as either a friend or a decent human being, but I have a confession to make: Until several weeks into our friendships freshman year, I didn’t know some of the most basic and vital information about my suitemates, the girls who would become two of my best friends at Yale.
Dumbledore is gay, Minkus flummoxed
It’s been a rough week. Late October marks one of the nastiest seasons on campus. We’re used to the fishbowl-like culture around here. However, in these weeks, we face a string of hypercritical, evaluative processes that temporarily turn the usual fishbowl into a shark tank.
I’ll stop being heteronormative when you stop peeing in my shower
As I slogged down Science Hill I saw it in the distance — the heinous orange road sign that troubled the feminist in me out of her standard post-lab hyper-caffeinated daze — “Men Working.” How SEXIST, thought I. Although all visual evidence affirmed the veracity of said signboard, I didn’t understand why it had to be so intrinsically discriminatory. When would reflective billboards take a hint from the post-Backlash era and break the Glass Ceiling on Prospect Street?
When Skype sex just isn’t enough
When I came to Yale, I had five indelible guidelines for hookups. Never mind that I was 18 years old and from a sheltered Chicago suburb. Never mind that my longest relationship was barely six months, First Base was still a BFD, or that I’d gotten plastered and hooked up in the Sig Nu house on Bulldog Days (seriously, though? That’s a problem). Mine was to be the hookup gospel:
Mommy wants me to be a millionaire!
There is a certain pained expression of my mother’s which she reserves for migraine headaches and discussions about my future career.