by Chance McAllister, Editor-In-Chief
Last Sunday I awoke to a bizarre situation. I was wearing a surprisingly authentic looking pilot's cap and there was a ferocious throbbing in my cranium - the inevitable ringing of whiskey bells. A blatant reminder of a twisted state. Beyond that, once I got up and began to move around, I found an assortment of strange items brought back from a night of shameless gathering: coat pockets absolutely full of fortune cookies, rolls of receipt paper and various other bizarre items that won't be named here. It was all worthless junk, really, but strange enough to foreshadow the physical struggle of the day, which would come in the form of a vicious hangover.
Post the First Commentby Meghan Lawson, Editor-In-Chief
As I made my way down Yonge Street on Sunday evening, high-fiving every maple-leaf-clad passerby I could reach, I was so proud to be Canadian. Like countless others flooding the streets, I felt vindicated by our men's hard-fought triumph over the Americans in the gold medal hockey game.
