If you believe in abstinence until marriage, I think you’re scared and repressed.

Honestly, you abstainers, why knock something you haven’t tried? Sex is wonderful.

I see it this way: if I’m going to sit for hours in the library and study for midterms, spend an hour on the elliptical because I sat for hours, and eat food in the dining halls because my parents wanted me to have a meal plan, I should at least allot myself thirty minutes of intimacy.

If the prudes and fanatics prefer not to masturbate or orgasm, that’s on them. Not only are they missing out, but they’re fighting a losing battle. Biology is hard to beat. We are programmed to want sex. And honestly, I’m tired of religion denying people their basic, biological rights.

Still, I understand their pleas of “The media is so evil. We’re rebelling against society’s horrible standards. We believe a woman is worth more than her sexuality.”

Yeah, I agree, but the facts are clear - pledges of abstinence are empty promises.

Sex abstainers are six times as likely to engage in oral sex (head = STDs) than sex enjoyers, and they are less likely to use a condom when they finally have sex (on average just 18 months later than non-pledgers.) Oh, and rates of sexual transmitted diseases are equal in abstainers and enjoyers alike.

(Plus, didn’t Jamie-Lynn Spears shun premarital sex?)

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I thought things were pretty bad: violent crime is up, we’re nearly in a recession, and massive polar ice regions are being reduced to raisins in the sun.

But whatever — all that shit doesn’t matter today, because for just $29.99 (and a lab fee of $119) you can finally find out who your baby daddy is.

Go to your nearest Rite Aid — actually the one on Broad Street — and an over-the-counter paternity test can be found in aisle six, on the shelf close to the condoms and under the Excite Female Sexual Stimulating Gel.

If the cheek swab test is done correctly, these tests are 99.9% accurate. That’s pretty impressive. It sure takes the fun out of “Guess Who” whomp whomp.

But seriously, this is a pretty big deal for a lot of Americans. Research has shown that about 10-20% of Americans incorrectly assess who their real fathers are. Let’s do the math. 15% of 300 million citizens = 45 million who may now be able to call the right guy “papa.”

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My experience in the Florida wetlands was anything but damp. It, being spring break, was actually quite dry — boozing wasn’t allowed.

Yes, it was an odd way to spend a vacation: sleeping in bunk beds, sharing a co-ed bathroom with seven others, and eating breakfast before the sun rose. Prison and Alternative Spring Break are the only institutions that could legally force such deprivations. I was captive in the latter.

I’m not really sure why I paid to volunteer. Picking up trash, carrying heavy fences, and painting Park Rangers’ houses was far from glamorous. But whatever, I’m glad that I went, because when I returned to Philadelphia, I felt fab. (And it wasn’t because I’m a community service whore like many ASBers. I don’t get off on giving. Like most people, I get off on getting.)

I just felt accomplished to have just spent an entire week with a group of my peers without the presence of illicit substances. We actually hung out — co-ed bonding, omg — and didn’t drink, smoke, do coke, or hook up for seven entire days. (God created Earth in seven days.) That doesn’t happen very often, especially at Penn. (I’m referring to sober boys and girls, not the story of creation.)

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Yesterday I saw a girl. I did a double take, and then I grilled her. I figured that she was wearing a bright orange miniskirt and a blue cutoff halter because she’s a pledge. No one would wear that by choice.

Speaking of, today marks the end of “hell week.” I’m not even pledging and I’ll breathe a sigh of relief. I’m just disgusted by the entire pledging process. It’s uncomfortable.

I’ve seen a large man wearing cutoff shorts and a pink paperboy hat. I’ve seen Tabards cry; we’ve all seen them “lounging” on tarp on College Green. I’ve witnessed a really pretty preppy boy with a box tapped to his back. His task was to carry sandwiches from Gia (metro frat…) and blush all the way home.

A few days ago, SAE pledges were standing on a ledge and screaming a song about “dick sucking.” They yelled in my ear as a friend and I passed by. Please boys, bitch about your life devoid of blowjobs in private. I see you in your ill-fitting blazers, khakis, and loafers, and the last thing I want is your penis near me.

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Last Friday, The New York Times publicized some frightening information: 1 out of every 100 American adults is currently incarcerated.

The report, conducted by the Pew Center on the States, asserts that 1.6 million adults are in federal prisons and an additional 700,000 are thumb-twiddling in local jails. The United States boasts the largest population of imprisoned people worldwide; China is second on the list.

When did going to prison become as common as a trip to Acapulco?

But the more I thought about it, the easier it was to put these figures into context.

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On Monday, I woke up at 10:45 a.m. Sometimes my loud roommate wakes me up earlier, but she slept through class and ruined my chances of seeing Bill Clinton. Girls can be so passive aggressive!

Bill’s coming to campus, and tickets for Thursday’s “performance” sold out in less than 40 minutes. That’s pretty impressive. Only pop culture favorites like the Super Bowl and Girl Power concerts sell out faster. (Note: Clinton is more sought after than Sporty Spice. It’s a fact from my childhood.) 

Clinton has this paradox-mystique thing going on. He’s likable but suspect, popular yet polarizing. He’s the most charismatic Protestant to have ever step foot in the White House. Because honestly, would anybody want to “make love” to Karl Rove? Obviously not. He looks like Wilbur. 

I’m quite annoyed that I can’t see Clinton because I have a really big crush on — I mean, I’m interested in what he has to say.

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Oxygen, sleep, and food. These are the basic physiological necessities. Without them, we’d be quite uncomfortable and complain a lot. Once we tired of complaining, we’d give up and die. But I say, we’re too young and pretty to die (look at my picture). 

So before you freak out, let’s just think this over. Oxygen? Check. Sleep? Check — thank you time management. How about food (i.e. nutrients, sustenance)? Get out your Family Feud signs: survey says X. Now it’s time to freak out.

Every time I hear that grumble in my tummy, I remember. And it pains me. The West Philadelphia “dining scene” makes me want to barf. (No fair! I thought I’d get to binge before I purge.) The Woody Allen in me got me thinking: What if I remain in a perpetual bilious state… and just wither away? How am I supposed to obtain safety, love, esteem, and self-actualization?  

You see, the problem is that whoever blueprinted Philadelphia (Kevin Bacon’s father) entrusted Penn to provide us with suitable eating establishments. Mr. Bacon, didn’t you know that quality trumps quantity — especially with food? And that many of Penn’s students are kosher!

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Unless you live under a large, white button — or don’t read The DP — you are probably already aware of (or maybe have mourned the) the demise of “Street Sweeper.” The DP scrapped 34th Street’s scandalous anonymous gossip section this semester. It has been replaced by “Overheard at Penn.”

Still, Penn students will not settle for gossip mediocrity, for Penn students are not mediocre. So something needed to be done — fast. We tried calling our parents for help — no response. We tried using our Ivy League status — laughed at. We even tried to pay our way through — declined. But then, by some undeserving miracle, our prayers were answered: Juicycampus.com.

No, it’s not a Campusfood spinoff (fatty!), but a new outlet for our scandal-ridden, Yenta-like tendencies. Juicy, deeply satisfying, has come to the rescue.

Who can join the elite ranks of this site, you ask? Anyone.

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People always said Hill College House was like getting the clap — no one wanted it, but at best would always be an indisputable stamp of sociability.

Personally, I saw Hill differently. I called it the house of nurture. Its first-class brunch made me strong: as a weak freshman, I quickly developed the guts needed to survive at Penn. Brunch was also a time to relax, to unwind. It was a time to exchange ideas over gourmet omelets and cappuccino. And last weekend, after some weird Rocky Horror shit, I did the Time Warp, and there I was, in Hill.

But instead of hunger, I felt sharp pangs of guilt. 

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Are women just their vaginas?

Ugh, that was so Carrie Bradshaw. But whatever. The point is, I never want to hear the word vagina again. Not on Locust Walk, not in Irvine, not ever. And oh, the implications of seashells, flowers, pussycats. 

As you’ve probably noticed, hoopla surrounding “The Vagina Monologues” is rather pervasive here on campus. (Like a trendy, expensive handbag, all the cool girls are flaunting it.) But, what can I say, I’m cool by association, and attended Wednesday’s showing to see one of my best friends perform.  

Let me set the scene: spotlight on a lone girl (maybe a few) in faux-sophisticated black and red getup. She is flailing her arms passionately (helplessly?) and rambling on about a number of things (e.g. sex, pubic hair, perverts and, duh, vaginas). I understand that the production has its merits — it is a novel idea to fight against violence and raise money for rape victims. The campaign has been quite lucrative, and according to the producer, Penn has raised over $27,000.

But although I’m impressed, I still can’t help feeling strangely dissatisfied. The production itself felt cliche, nauseating, and stale. (Ew, stale vaginas).

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