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Swipe left. Swipe right. Pause, scroll, read, swipe left again. It's a tedious and oftentimes unnerving routine — yet I keep going back.
If you've ever driven around Phoenix, these mottos are likely etched in your brain:
You never want to wake up in a room like this.
I've passed the B.B. Moeur Activity Building on ASU's Tempe campus hundreds of times. It never stood out to me. In view of the concrete and glass facade of Coor Hall or the iconic circular form of the Music Building, it's simple by comparison. But hidden under its plain adobe walls, the Moeur Building is a piece of University — and American — history.
It's a Tuesday. Hot. I'm walking to the Hayden Library when I pass a protest. They're holding signs and carrying megaphones, their voices cutting through the air. A bead of sweat rolls down my back as I turn the music in my headphones up, put my head down and try to slip past unnoticed.
On Nov. 24, 1974, in the Hadar Triangle, located in Northeastern Ethiopia, a 31-year-old Donald Johanson made a discovery that changed human history forever.
Imagine you are a first-year student and your professor gives you a project typically meant for a senior. You have two semesters to complete it — or you'll fail, but you don't have the skills or experience needed to complete the project. This is what Ruth Berkowitz, an ASU alum who graduated in 2024, and her team experienced throughout their capstone project.
The glass breaks. "Everybody pay attention." The crowd around you begins to part and soon enough, a line of men wearing Greek letters filters through the clearing. You've found yourself in the front row of a performance, and the audience is buzzing with energy.
Click Click. Dominoes sprawl across the wooden table. My feet dangle off the ground, and I carefully trace my fingers along a deep crack in the table’s surface. My sister places her chubby hands on the table, hoisting herself up with her face tied in an angry little knot. Paco is cheating again. Against a 7-year-old.
Growing up, my grandmother would always read me the old Arabic folklore story "I Love You Like Salt."
Growing up, I was embarrassed of the things that were the most familiar to me.
Tasha Romero has felt the same thing almost every day for over 10 years. A tingling, consuming desire to escape the world around her and forget about the responsibilities her daily life demands.
As the academic world weighs the pros, cons and ethical implications of AI, ASU — eager to maintain its innovation reputation — has immersed itself in the industry in the form of over 500 projects costing hundreds of millions of dollars.
Every weekend, Kennady Reading, a sophomore studying criminology, is on her feet hustling to serve the long queue of customers lined up inside the In-N-Out at Desert Ridge Marketplace. The constant yelling of food orders, the volume of the crowd's conversations and the smell of musky grease become what she describes as a "busy beehive."
I have Nicole Kidman's entire AMC theater pre-show advertisement committed to memory. If you've been to this theater in the past five years, chances are you're familiar too. There are few words to describe the feeling that washes over me in the theater when this ad begins to play. I genuinely feel the spirit of Kidman enter the room — silver pinstripe suit and all.
It's early 2009. You're on your old Mac desktop. You know… the one with the big white keys that click loudly when you type? On one of the anonymous discussion forums you follow, you see someone has posted a link to a whitepaper — "Bitcoin: A Peer-to-Peer Electronic Cash System." You read it, find it interesting, but brush it off. Little do you know, you're about to witness the start of a technological revolution.
I lay in bed, curled up with my knees almost brushing my chin, mindlessly scrolling Instagram, when I came across a trending phrase: "My girl's going to ASU".
Content warning: This story contains subject matter that may be disturbing or upsetting to some readers, including eating disorders. Please proceed with caution.
The MECHA room, located in the basement of the Memorial Union, has been locked for over a year.
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