Moody Magazine: Making Love

We’re in the mood for love...

It’s hard to believe that 5 editions have now passed! We built this community on the foundation of transparency, and our commitment to breaking down taboos surrounding sex and self-love will never change. With each edition, we simply hope to make our readers feel seen, stripping away judgment and stigma as we share stories from a place of raw vulnerability. We hope this allows you to be gentle with yourself and those around you, initiating these uncomfortable conversations without fear.

We are incredibly grateful for our amazing team that has brought this edition to life, it’s been a labor of love. This edition holds a special place in our hearts, serving as a testament to our year of loving and learning, both within ourselves and with others. As we graduate, this marks our final edition here at Syracuse. However, we are excited to bring Moody beyond this community and share it with more of the world; our love story doesn’t end here.

The tale of this edition is broken into three chapters: The Story of Us, The End of Us, and The Story of Me. This edition encompasses the journey of love, exploring its different phases: the experience of being in love, the pain of heartbreak, and the process of learning to love life and yourself. The stories inside are reflections of our own experiences, reminding us that love is not just an external force but one that is deeply personal.

As you navigate through the pages of this edition, we hope it inspires you to cherish the love that surrounds you, nurture the relationships that enrich your life, and celebrate the beauty of human connection. In the end, it is love that truly makes life worth living. Whether you fall fast and hard or take it slow and steady, the journey of love looks different for everyone. Love, in its essence, is a universal language that speaks to the core of our being. It manifests in various ways – the tender embrace of a loved one, the shared laughter between friends, and the silent understanding between kindred spirits.

Now, let’s make love.

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The Story of Us

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The Story of Us

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The Honeymoon Phase

Addicted to your smile, and the way you show me love. You cloud my vision, turning my eyes into hearts. Minutes spent out of your presence are wasted, and the world seems dull and gray.

You. I only see you. I only hear you. I only taste you. I only ever want – you.

I would chase you down any airport. I won’t let you go on the phone, you hang up first, no you! I make breakfast in bed for you on Sundays and you bring flowers to me on Mondays for they are always dull, but never with you.

My days before you must have been drained of color. You let the light in with all its warmth and softness. It doesn’t feel real, the way you look at me as if you know. This must be a dream, as my white knight kneels before me and kisses my knees. I just want to be around you, in your ever gentle presence and let your light fill me up till we glow as one.

Your sight weighs heavy as you see something in me that I don’t. God! Your eyes reflect a labyrinth as they undress my soul. I pray for the others that get to gaze into your eyes, as they will never get to see you the way I do.

Our lives intertwine as your legs tangle with mine. They say love is blind, but you see beyond myself. Boundaries are broken down as I become someone I did not know I had the possibility of becoming.

The word love hangs on my lips. When will you admit that you love me? Do you love me the way I love you? I gather all the flowers you lay at my feet and pluck each petal off.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me! Of course you do, how could I question your devotion to me?

I’m addicted to your lips, I never knew that was possible, but it is.

No wonder so many write of love and go to war over it, such a sacred entity that wraps around your soul and holds you close. The Montague to my Capulet, a love so irrevocable nothing could tear us apart, we are that epic love story, but ours shall not be tragic. How could such a story lead to the death of love? Does that mean that all love is destined to end? No, that’s not possible. People beat the odds, we are beating the odds.

Our love is different, it consumes and breathes life. Love should save the soul, not destroy it. That overplayed notion that this will end in sorrow, they covet the love that we hold.

They wish to ruin what we have with their envy.

I wonder when we will live together, which side of the bed will you sleep on, will I wake up to coffee and kisses? No one has loved me as you do, intoxicating and heavy, consuming and enthralling. Others fear for what they do not understand.

Can we sustain this love forever? Of course we can, I will.

Will you? There’s no doubt in my mind that something this divine is destined for anything but a happily ever after.

By Lauren Duncan

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torybook Love: Just a Fantasy?

It’s ironic that the girl with a thousand romance books marked “read” on her Goodreads page has never had the privilege of experiencing the type of passion written by her favorite authors in real life. I’ve never been held with tenderness, or had my hair tucked behind my ears. I’ve never had my door opened for me, or received romantic love notes. I’ve never been fought for.

While immersed in the pages, I almost believe that I am the main character being adoringly looked at and utterly obsessed over by the strong, handsome, protective male love interest. But once the book mark is tucked into the corner and I catch a glance at the empty pillow next to me, I am reminded that he is simply ink on paper. Book after book I fall in love with men that don’t exist.

While my book boyfriends provide me with a taste of what love can look like, the standards that they implement seem unattainable outside of stories. Do men like this actually exist? Will any relationship measure up to fiery, passionate ones within pages?

Now I’m aware that a wealthy English heir isn’t going to walk across a field as the sun rises and declare I have “bewitched

him body and soul,” but is it so bad to want an attractive man with his life together to sweep me off my feet?

In moments of sadness I remind myself that my lack of male counterpart has little to do with thoughts of being unworthy, in fact it’s the opposite. Thanks to the pile of books crammed in the corner of my room, I have a firm grasp of my self worth and how I expect to be treated by a partner. I want love: real, pure love that is overwhelming and exciting. I want a love that makes me feel safe and warm, with someone that appreciates me for the person I am. I crave a love that roars like a flame, one that consumes me entirely. I refuse to accept crude dating apps, pathetic snapchats, and shallow direct messages as my reality.

So for now, I bide my time, content with finding solace within pages, instead of sheets. I fall in love everyday with someone I know I can never touch, but I would much rather find true love amid the pile of books crammed in the corner of my room than be disappointed in someone real.

Written By: Sarah Griffiths

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Invisible String Theory Maeve, My Miracle “Do you think we’re together in every lifetime?” …I’m a spiritual kind of person. I’m a tarot cards and crystals kind of person. I’m the kind of person who believes there are miracles that happen on this earth we’re not meant to understand. So the concept of soulmates? Not a stretch for me. What is a soulmate if not a miracle in the form of a person?

Our love has been full of small miracles from the start.

The day we matched on Tinder my beloved two-year-old PHOTO BY BLANK crystal ring finally broke. Crystals break when they bring you what they’re supposed to. And I knew that day, that mine was supposed to bring me to you. That was our first miracle.

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We talked for a few weeks. It was easy, light. On the day we finally met, “Silk Chiffon” blared through my speakers as you sat in my passenger seat for the first time, my cheeks tickled pink with embarrassment. Of all the songs that could have played, it was this one, the ultimate lesbian love anthem. Another miracle.

That first date we agreed. We’d date for a month,we’d have fun, we’d enjoy the moment. You’d start your masters and I’d move to New York, and we’d look back on our time together as youthful, free, the perfect college fling. On the same page, we always said. A miracle for two people not seeking a miracle.

The shared love of Succession, the jokes we’d tell that would always land. The taste in restaurants, in cocktails, in ways to spend an evening all lining up precisely… My friends loving you instantly. Your friends loving me instantly. Too many miracles to count. And then came the miracle where everything changed.

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The morning after the first time you spent the night. My chronic illness struck in the wee hours of the morning. I left the door to the bathroom unlocked. As I stumbled in, sleep still crusted in the corners of my eyes, about to begin my morning ritual of gastrointestinal upchuck, I decided to leave the door unlocked. A silent invitation to let you in, if you wanted to be let in. After a few minutes, you entered with a glass of water and a smile. You rubbed my shoulders as I let the sickness and humiliation take me. I mumbled an apology. I began to regret not locking the door. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m happy to take care of you.” And in the biggest miracle yet, I believed you. I believed you. And with that belief, I fell in love with you.

It’s now a good time to mention that our one-month fling hinged on your masters program. Your two-year long physicians assistant program that distilled all of of medschool into half the time, masters program. A master’s program so busy, you would be completely undateable, completely unavailable. So when at the end of May, you confessed with glossy eyes and parted lips that you were in love with me; when cheeks and palms on fire, I confessed I was in love with you, when we bid one another a tearful goodbye, it was all BY BLANK PHOTO supposed to end there. Now comes the biggest miracle of all.

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Call it the red string of fate. Call it when you know you know.

Call it love at first sight. But somehow, I knew it wasn’t the end. Not because of the crystal ring, the angel numbers we’d see on every date, the odd and visceral dream I’d had at fourteen of falling in love with a girl who looked exactly like you. Not because of any of these delicate proofs. It was a gentle, steady voice; not from my brain or my heart or my gut, but my soul, that told me somehow, it would all work out. That I would spend my mornings waking up to your long lashes brushing against my cheek. My nights tangled soft in your curls. I knew deep within that I was meant to be yours for the rest of my life. So somehow, masters program be damned, we made it work. And as we reach our one-year anniversary, our miracle is proven right, every single day.

So when you ask if I think we are together in every lifetime, the answer is easy. From the moment we met, you knew exactly how to love me, how to be loved by me. How else could you have known this, if not that you remembered?

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What queerness taught me Sacha Wood

how to count

how to kiss

sitting on tables, skirts long count sometohow hide to resentment, times we on have everything sitting tables, inskirts common, sometimes the long to hide reonly thing is how they see sentment, ussometimes we have everything in common, sometimes onlygirls the summer the all the thing is how theyassee us turn blonde we turn rainbow as school rules will altheTelling summer all thewe’re girls low, ourselves turn blonde we turn as not like them, notrules like rainbow as we’re school anything. will allow, Telling ourselves we’re the older have started not likegirls them, a we’re club. it’snot somewhere to be, like anything. right? people to be with. the older girlslike have We’re not really them, a club. westarted like them, but we’re not it’s somewhere strange like them. to be, right? people to be with. says you’re alsomeone We’re not really like lowed five them, wegirl likecrushes them,bebut fore you’re g-a-y, I bite my we’re not strange like tongue them. at six-seven-eight thinking that can’t be right wesomeone spend our sayslunchtimes you’re alloweduntil fiveone girl of crushes glancing us is before you’re brave enough to g-a-y, say maybe bite my tongue that at sixit Imeans something the seven-eight thinking girl in the year above is nice can’t be right tothat look at our we spend lunchtimes glancing until one a of year I dream about us later is brave enough to kissing her convincing mysay self that ifitI means knew any boys maybe someI’dthing be dreaming them that theabout girl in the year is nice instead.

Myabove tongue bleedsto looknumber at over eleven and she’s blonde like a princess. a year later I dream about kissing her convincing myself that if I knew any boys I’d be dreaming about them instead. my tongue bleeds over number eleven and she’s blonde like a princess.

something goes through be mehow that to I never felt with him when the party gets out of hand and he has to

I did shed to fit youeverything know you’re my skin better, dresses, allowed to love a onepronouns, anything with night-stand? bows

he calls me king and I

tattooknow like the ghostfeel on Didn’t it could hergood, thigh,having a body this sugar, sherbert, cigbeing seen anything at all.

she tiltsoutmy like climb the chin bathroom I’m something different, window, mine is the first door he something worth knocks on. savouring nevertoknew it suited me comes my lips so soft hegentle calls me king and I and that my breath love him for it. in my exclamation Now it’s allmarks I see in the body if I’m a sentence, mirror, I’m in translation, if the I’m a obvious now why poem, she’s read me anew flowers never looked right

and those her touch is stupid like thebras cold with the pillow bows and I’m side of the He lends meathisthe binder embarrassed inand I cough way into stinctive way Imy smother

euphoria.

I shed everything to all fit boys me to kiss my taught skin better, messy and pronouns, desperate, but dresses, anyshe whispers, seems to thing with bows know meknow like aitmirror Didn’t could feel this good, having a body she doesn’t love me but being she lovesseen me better anything at all.

When I’m kitchen in boxers, we’re at her table legsshe’s hairybeaten and myme titsat and pressed down, cards again I feel like I could walk into that party and kill I could sit here those guys whoand saidlose forever they kill people like us

how to be when the party gets out of hand and he has to climb out the bathroom window, mine is the first door he knocks on. he calls me king and I never knew it suited me he calls me king and I love him for it.

Now it’s all I see in the mirror, obvious now why the flowers never looked right and those stupid bras with the bows

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He lends me his binder and I cough my way into euphoria. how to love

she was a temporary

arettes, and boy, if I didn’tI’m getin high When boxers, legs to some soundtrack so hairy and my tits in pressed shitty it glinted her down, eyes I feel like I could walk into that we danced ourparty legs and kill those and guyskissed. who said together Karaoke girl, will they kill people likeyou us be my -

how to love

did you know sex doesn’t to fuck up did youhave know you’re the friendship? allowed to love a one-

night-stand? it’s a fun way to spend a rainy night, learn a

she wasoratwo, temporary trick have nothtattoo ing to like say, the ghost on sometimes the sherbert, silliest her thigh, sugar, intimaciesand make for if theI cigarettes, boy, best drinking didn’t get highgames to some soundtrack so shitty it did you in know glinted herlesbians eyes we can’t be sluts? danced our legs together and kissed.

Karaokeclub girl, in the straightest will you be my - like the in town dressed biggest butch on screen

did knowmy sexeyeliner doesn’t sheyou strokes tattoos, know what have to I fuck up the she means it’s a fun way friendship? know athey’re towespend rainy staring night, but we can kid our-have learn a trick or two, selves: this is rebellion nothing toresist say, somethey can’t the times the silliest intimaknee-jerk slurs, we cies make for always the best laugh, there’s drinking games one they just give us more

did youtoknow lesbians reason keep touching,be don’t you know can’t sluts? you’re urging us on?

with that inI fell thein love straightest club while the DJlike played ingirl town dressed the Stacy’sbutch Mom -on screen biggest he mytheeyeliner didstrokes you know rules tattoos, I know what she aren’t real? means we know they’re

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staring but we can kid ourselves: this is rebellion they can’t resist the how to kiss knee-jerk slurs, we laugh, there’s always one they something goes through just give us more reason me that I never felt to keep with him touching, don’t you know urging she tilts myyou’re chin like us on?

I’m something differI fell something in love withworth that girl ent, savouring while the DJ played comes my -lips so Stacy’s to Mom

soft and gentle that my exclamadid breath you know the rules tion-marks in my body aren’t real? if I’m a sentence, I’m in translation, if I’m a how to she’s heal read me poem, anew When she is broke her touch like my theheart it was cold sideworse of the than pillowthe and I’m embarrassed boys. at the instinctive way I smother TV’s best advice and my Boys me toplaylist kiss sister’staught longest all messy and desperfaltered in the search for ate, queer closure; I wasn’t a but she whispers, victim of know the patriarchy, seems to me like She just didn’t love me. a mirror She doesn’t love me It first butwas she the loves me time betterI’d We’re at her walked intokitchen anything table and she’s disbelieving mybeaten luck, the me cards onlyatpain I’dagain ever staked Iincould and lose first sit datehere prep.

I spent forever an hour trembling with

nerves, fumbling with butterfly backs that fell straight to my stomach.

I’d been made soft in anticipation of loving her, so she left me far too soft to hate her.

Looking for something less lovely to blame, I guess luck could be my villain. If I use its picture for target practice, and sleep with its best friend, Maybe one day it’ll come crawling back Maybe, one day, I’ll fall in love again.

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verything ed R E AND

IS

BY COLETTE GOLDSTEIN

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36 Moody’s Guide to Initimacy in 36 Questions

After you have completed the questions, look into each others eyes for at least two minutes and say what you notice about each other.

Congratulations you’ve completed Moody’s 36 intimacy questions. Now that you have played this game with your potential partner, if you decide to move forward on your journey together, we ask you to take these unconditional truths and vulnerabilities with you as you grow with one another. Remember them when you are sad, remember them when you are happy, remember them when you have finally fallen in love.

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1. Who would you want to be “your meal?”

2. What is your preferred love language?

3. When you are sad or stressed, what kind of support do you look for?

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4. Who was your first kiss? Would you change anything about it?

Share something 5. What are three personality traits you look for in a partner? you are most 6. If you could choose how to be sexually stimulated, what would you want? grateful for in this 7. What does your ideal intimate fantasy consist of? current moment.

8. If you could pick a romantic trope for you and your partner to be what would it be? (examples: enemies to lovers, forbidden love, etc.?)

9. What is an insecurity you go out of your way to hide?

10. What is a personality trait you would like to be associated with and why?

11. What is a personality trait you would not want to be associated with and why?

12. Do you ever rehearse what you’re going to do in bed with someone, for the fear of “doing it wrong”?

13. What makes you feel the sexiest in bed and why?

14. What would a “perfect” day look like for you?

What about your “perfect” night?

15. Do you ever sing in the shower?

16. If you were able to live Would you ever sing to me in the shower? to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old, which would you choose?

17. If given the option, how would you like to die? By having an 18. Name three things you orgasm so good it just kills think we have in common. us instantly so we never Both in and out of the bedroom. have to live without 19. What privileges do you have that you have never each other? thought about before? What privileges are you the most grateful to have and what do you wish you could change about the world of privilege?

20. Give me “the powerpoint presentation” about you -tell me your life story.

21. If you could have any talent or ability, what would it be and why?

25. What is your most terrible moment you 22. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth experienced with a friend or past partner? about anything, what would you want to know?

26. What is your proudest accomplishment thus far 23. When was the last time you cried? and what is something you hope to accomplish?

Were you alone or with someone else?

27. What roles do love and affection play in your life?

24. What is your most treasured 28. What is your most treasured possession? intimate moment, either with 29. What does friendship mean to you? a friend or a past partner?

30. What makes a healthy relationship for you?

31. Share three characteristics that you consider positive about me and I will do the same for you.

32. How would you describe your family? What type of person do they hope you bring home to meet them?

33. Tell me about your mom. How is your relationship?

34. Make three true “I” statements. I will do the same for you. (example: I am extremely turned on by you.)

Inspired by New York Times: 35. What is something that you feel is important “The 36 Questions that Lead to Love” that I should know about you?

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To Love So Viciously:

Your scent rouses primal hunger in my stomach as it meets my nose.

I’m salivating at the sudden awareness of just how starved I am.

Unspoken craving boils over as we undress and become each other’s most willing prey.

Your eyes darken with ravenous obsession as they behold my bare skin.

Hunger for my naked curves turns you savage.

Gluttony and lust are twin devils on your heaving shoulders.

You had the first bite last time, canines itching to sink in and tear.

Lovingly, you expose your neck and invite me to bare my teeth and taste.

It’s my turn to draw first blood.

Soon we’re both feasting, gripping sweat-slicked flesh until it shreds under our claws.

It’s a deliciously bloody mess, sheets smeared in the gore of our climax.

Our souls bask in thick, salty rain as they melt into one another.

We cheat death every time we fuck.

It knows this mutual slaughter runs deeper than tissue and marrow.

It watches and lowers its scythe; we’ve ripped each other to pieces enough.

The absence of disgust at our violent appetite keeps us viciously alive.

I’m content to restore the torn meat on my bones, Making it fresh for you to devour when we gorge ourselves again.

Mine is the flesh that burns and pulsates with pleasure under your touch.

Yours is the tongue that aches to explore my body’s ripest, most secret reaches.

Ours is the passion that makes iron-tinged red taste divine.

- Vanessa Walker 33

The End of Us

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The End of Us

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CupID, YOU DEVIL

BY COLETTE GOLDSTEIN

IF CUPID WAS ONCE AN ANGEL, HE HAS CERTAINLY FALLEN. CUPID, YOU DEVIL, WHY DID YOU TAKE ME DOWN WITH YOU? LOVE OPENED LIKE A MOUTH – A LURING FORCE, SOMETHING TO FALL INTO. I FELL LIKE SKIN, LIKE HAIR, LIKE SWEAT ONE TINY AMPUTATION AT A TIME. THAT WAS LOVE. IT WAS EXHILARATING TO LOSE BITS OF MYSELF TO YOU, PARTS THAT I HAD, BREATH, WEIGHT, STEADY HANDS, AND PARTS I DID NOT HAVE YET, FUTURE, FOCUS THAT WAS LOVE. TO SHED THOSE BITS OF MYSELF – WATCH THEM, THEY STILL FALL, SLEEP PRESENCE – UNTIL I BECAME BLURRED AND PIN-SIZE, UNTIL I BECAME SMALL ENOUGH TO FIT INTO SOMEONE ELSE’S HEART. IF CUPID WAS ONCE AN ANGEL, HE HAS CERTAINLY FALLEN LIKE I HAVE. CUPID, YOU DEVIL, WHY DID YOU TAKE ME DOWN WITH YOU? CUPID, YOU DEVIL, WHEN DO WE STOP FALLING? PHOTO BY BLANK

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Through Rose Colored Glasses I’ll never forget my first pair of rose-colored glasses: A gift of love, blurring lines, hiding faults in masses.

The world was a canvas of vibrant hues, Every moment shared was headline news.

Through those glasses, flaws appeared as art, Critiques of our love never taken to heart.

Late-night whispers, secrets shared in jest, Red flags to others were sacred in our love nest.

Friends frowned upon our isolated dance, Envying the glasses that gave us our romance.

They said we lost ourselves in each other’s gaze, Blind to the world’s harsh, unforgiving blaze.

“Jealous,” we whispered, of our love so bright, Their warnings mere shadows in our radiant light.

But love, through tinted glass, masks the red flags well, Turning critics’ concerns into stories we’d quell.

He filled my breath, my moments, my days, Leaving no room for others to embrace.

His kindness to me contrasted his scorn Toward any who tried to share doubts or warn.

Then, in a stumble, my glasses cracked, The rose hue faded, the truth unpacked.

What once seemed quirky, endearing, and rare, Became blood red in a stark, chilling scare.

Through the fracture, the world’s true colors bled through, The red flags, once hidden, now painfully true.

Criticism, isolation, control, and disdain, The glasses not rose, but lenses of pain.

I’ll never forget my first pair of rose-colored glasses, Nor the lessons learned through life’s harsh classes.

For in love’s great dance, the truth must be your guide, Not through rose-colored glasses, but with eyes open wide.

By: Miguel Conception

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It was the brush of a stranger’s fingertips against hers that evoked her epiphany; a touch from a hand that felt so achingly familiar, yet she found that it did not belong to the person she was thinking of. Her eyes glanced up from the man’s recognizable fingers to his anonymous face. She took her coffee and walked back to her car, still feeling the warmth of his fingertips on hers. She swore those were the same fingers that traced her face and tattoos, the same ones that made her addicted to his touch. The nail beds were the same, the length of his palm, even rings that were identically placed along his hands.

All she could remember was the way his hands felt on her body, nothing else. Funny enough, she didn’t even cry when they broke up, but her stomach sank a little when the thought of him no longer laying between her thighs crossed her mind. It was on the nights when her thoughts won that she would deeply reflect on her feelings about him. The uncertainty of where she stood, of whether or not she even cared, was terrifying to her. Her confusion at her lack of feelings was exhausting. The glimmer they held in their eyes when they were together was just a trick of the light. The emotions were shallow and fleeting, passionate but ephemeral. It was those fucking cursed LED lights.

She sat by her window on one of the nights where her thoughts kept her up, along with the flashbacks, surveying the sky for any type of nonsensical sign that maybe she was wrong, maybe they both really did matter to each other. She sighed knowing that if they did, she wouldn’t have to question it. The moon wasn’t full, to her dismay; it was something she would take as a sign if it was. He used to stare at the moon with her after they would fuck in his car. It became a sort of spiritual habit she took up every night before bed; she would focus her gaze on it and replay the montage she created of the two of them. It was mostly flashbacks of cramped and sweaty sex. She sighed in exasperation as her mind wandered to the stranger’s fingers she saw earlier in the day, and how good the ones she once intertwined with her own felt inside of her. There was one specific time at a redlight that made her eyes roll to the back of her head by the thought of it alone.

Fuck, she thought. Will I ever fall in love?

She always imagined love as this whirlwind, all-consuming experience of fluffy emotions. She thought she felt that when she met him. Her stomach dropped when their eyes met. Her hands shook a little when they sat close to each other for the first time. The feeling of his thigh grazing hers sent her spiraling. She had the same effect on him. Their dates consisted of sex and more sex. He would want to try something new, take her out to a nice dinner, go on a hike. All she would want was for him to fuck her brains out.

It was at this moment that she finally came to terms with what she had struggled to believe all along: all she really wanted was to connect on a physical level. She still cared for him, but she had to admit that care didn’t extend far enough to sustain the relationship he wanted; they had never really wanted the same thing. This sudden acceptance of her truth took a massive weight off of her shoulders. She made peace with the complexity of her feelings, though they werehallow; they were hers to understand and it was okay to be honest with herself about how she truly felt.

Admiring the moonlight washing over her bare arms, she felt free to embrace her reality and accept that her experience was not the conventional version of love that she had always imagined.

47 By: Sarah Dickerson

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"I assume every cheater has their own "reasons."

Mine? In the moment, I just don't give a fuck."

I’m not proud of what I’ve done. I have no excuses or justification, only excerpts from the past that detail my cheating behaviors. I’ve always been open about being a cheater to my friends. Whenever one of them brings up how all cheaters suck and are bad people (they’re right, cheaters do suck and what I’ve done is bad), I will be the person that makes the room go deathly silent when I utter the words: “I’ve cheated.” Usually whichever friend it is who’s learning this fact about me will do a double take, then sheepishly smile. They’ll say, “Yeah, but you’re different.” Am I, though? Really?

I’ve had sex with someone else the day before someone asked me to be their girlfriend. I’ve turned my location off on my phone so my partner wouldn’t see where I was going after I made plans with someone else I had just met. I’ve ruined relationships and damaged other people’s self esteem and mental health with my impulsive actions. So, what really goes on in the mind of a cheater? I can only speak for myself. I assume every cheater has their own “reasons.” Mine? In the moment, I just don’t give a fuck.

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I never seek out other people when I am in a relationship. When I’ve cheated, it’s been chance encounters where I meet someone I find incredibly attractive, they find me attractive, and then by the end of the night or by the next day I’ve cheated. In that moment when I decide I want to cheat, I don’t see it as cheating.

Why? Because I banish the thought of my partner from my head and just go the fuck for it. In fact, there’s no thinking involved whatsoever when I cheat on my partner. It sounds horrible, because it is. But I’ve done it.

It sounds weird to say that in some relationships I did not feel guilt afterwards. It’s my body, my choices, my mistakes.

The only thing I regret is hurting my partner in the past if they found out. But before then, whoever I cheated with was just simply an experience for me. I wish I worked differently, and I wish cheating didn’t NOT bother me.

People assume people cheat because they lack selfconfidence, or don’t feel they get enough gratification from their partner. For me, it’s entirely circumstantial. Our relationship wasn’t enough to say no to good sex from someone else who wanted me. I couldn’t find a fuck to give but I could always find someone else to fuck.

By Anonymous

Setting is Character 2’s college house: EXT. OUTSIDE HOUSE- MORNING Character 1 is rereading a text received that morning from character 2 that reads, “I think I need to tell you something”, as they wait for Character 2 to let them inside their home.

INT. LIVING ROOM- MORNING They sit on opposite love seats in the living room.

Character 1 : [Character 1 stumbles over words, fidgeting with hands] “You need to speak first.. I.. I can only assume why I’m here but I need you to say it.”

[Noticeable pause before any response].

Character 2 : “I’m sorry. I was so stupid last night. I don’t know how to say it…I”

C1: “Wait what? Do you not want me to forgive you?”

C1

C1 : “You…??”

C2 : “Okay. Well… I actually don’t know what to say to that.”

C2 :[Character 1 whispers to no one in particular.]

“Fuck. Fuck I hate this… I.”

C2 : “Well I…I kissed this girl last night, who’s been hitting on me for a while. I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it.”

C1 : “You hate this?”

[Character 1’s voice breaks].

“You?! You just told me you cheated on me and now I’m monitoring YOUR feelings…I can’t believe this.”

C1 : [Character 1 inaudibly gasps out].

“I don’t even know what to say… I mean, I thought we were in a relationship.”

Character 2 : “I’m so sorry. Maybe you were right before.

I think you are right. Maybe this isn’t what I want.”

C2 :“We were. No WE ARE. I just. I just don’t know. I think I got scared of this, of us.”

C1 :A few tears fall from Character 1’s eyes but they swiftly brush them away.

“I’m so confused. You said goodnight to me then just kissed some other girl? Are you saying you want her?”

C2 : “I just did it. But I don’t want her. I just did it to do it. I can’t give you a why. I’m so sorry.”

C1 : Character 1 pulls their hands through their hair anxiously.

“What does that even mean…?.. I feel so stupid. Oh my god.

I’m so stupid.”

C2 : “No.. please don’t, this is my fault. Don’t feel stupid.”

C1 : [Character 1 speaks with a raised voice, but careful to not wake up any roommates].

“I went to bed wishing you a fun night. I woke up hoping you had a good time! That is what is stupid. That is what is so fucking stupid!”

Character 2 sighs and releases their arms into their lap, head in hands.

[Character 1 begins to cry].

C1 : “So you’re saying this is over ?... Why am I holding your hand through this, can you just say it already?

Please.”

[C1’s voice becomes more desperate].

C2 : “Yes…” the words escape her mouth with unexpected relief, “I want to be done.... I think, I think this just made me realize I can’t be with you right now. This is too much. I’m sor–” [Character 1 cuts them off.]

C1 :“Stop saying you are sorry… just stop” C1’s hand moves in front of their face, avoiding eye contact with C2.

“I… I can’t believe this is happening. I need to leave.”

Character 1 stands up.

EXT. PORCH- MID MORNING C2 : “I’m so sor–” [Character 2 stops themselves mid sentence, now at the doorway] C2 : “Wait”

C1 : [Character 1 raises voice with annoyance].

“Why are you upset? I’m SO confused right now. Are you even sorry? What is happening?”

[Character 1 turns around from the steps as character two pulls a heart pendant out of their back pocket].

C2 “I’m sorry. I want you. I want to be with you. I C2: just…”

C2 : “Here” [Character 2 tosses the necklace into character 1’s hands].

[Character 1 cuts them off].

C1: “Are you breaking up with me?”

C1 C2 : “What. No, no I don’t want to break up.”

C1 : “Then what is this.. I don’t want to forgive you – but I still want you. I hate this, fuck…. I think I could move past it.”

[Character 1 mouths a weak goodbye back].

EXT. DRIVEWAY IN CAR- MID MORNING Character 1 sits inside their car and locks the doors, releasing jagged, ugly cries into their palms. They wait a minute before pulling the windshield wiper handle up and letting the snow slide off. After notable silence they hit the steering wheel.

C1 : [Character 1 speaks in a hushed voice, gripping the car seat like it’s the only thing left to hold them.]

“Fuck you.”

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To Grieve the Living Denial

Anger

Bargaining

I meet Denial first, as we all do. She comes to me in a blissful moment before the sleep fully leaves my eyes and my body has yet to emerge out of my bed. As he so often finds ways into my dreams, I find myself mistaking my morning for one spent with him – I think to myself, he must be right beside me. But, there is no one beside me. There is only an empty pillow with his scent still woven in its threads.

Perhaps with Denial in tow, I spend my days doing all that I can to not think of him, which, in turn, makes me think of nothing but him. The cycle is all-consuming. I find myself still moving throughout my days with the ghost of his hand around mine. My inner monologue still sings the tune of his cadence as our inside jokes appear everywhere and his repertoire of sayings repeat in my head. Clocks show numbers that somehow 52

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Depression

Acceptance

web back to him, the books in libraries spell out his initials, and I no longer live in my own reality as I daydream of alternative universes with him still in arms reach.

After Denial comes Anger, but I am not an angry person. It feels unnatural as I scream like a little girl into my pillow, being sentenced to the all too familiar silent treatment. I kick my feet and ball my fists thinking if I try hard enough, grit my teeth a little tighter, that maybe I can snap this reality into a different one. Convinced my punishment cannot last much longer, that a timer must be dinging soon signaling my release from this solitude, I wait. But no timer goes off and instead, my thoughts are left with nowhere to go but the echochamber of my mind…

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I begin to try and rationalize hypothetical ideas to myself.

Oh! If only we were at different times in our lives. If only I were older… or perhaps it’s this damned distance to blame and if I throw it all away and run back to him, we might still have a fighting chance! Imagine we run away and try again! Maybe Possibly By Chance Consider —!!

This is Bargaining, taking her seat at the table with me. She inches closer and flips rows of cards, parting a sea of playing chips– pieces of myself that have intimately been placed up for grabs. Together we shift through timelines, shuffling and sorting through the odds so quickly that I cannot make out a pattern in which I have a fighting chance of winning. And yet, I entertain her games anyway.

Eventually I give up on the games and go home to my good friend Depression.

She’s holding my stuffed animal in her hand waiting for me and our lover, Loneliness, who soon joins us in bed. I lay between the two, entangling myself within their limbs so as to not float away, and feel nothing more than the four walls of this apartment. From my front door to my kitchen sink, this is The Loneliest Place in the Whole World. I think to myself that this moment in time will be here after I drift to sleep and here when I wake up and here for days to come again after the day is through. What if it never goes away I wonder. What if both him and the version of myself I knew before him both never return?

But by no estimated timeline, or magic series of actions, or winning of any mental games, I am no longer woken up with Depression gripping at my throat. I grow bored of entertaining the bets that Bargaining suggests in my weakest moments, and my body relaxes as Anger leaves, relieving the pressure from my clenched jaw and restoring my softer sensations.

The candles are lit in my apartment, my favorite meal is on the stove with flavor I can finally taste again. And as I wait for the cookies I have for dessert, I notice a new friend: Acceptance. She tells me that Grief, no matter how soul-gripping and perception-shattering it can feel, is really just Love sprouting back up from the rubble of an old relationship. She tells me that grieving the living might be harsh, but it is often necessary to move forward.

Grieving the living who have left our lives she says is how those buds from Love become full and colorful flowers once again. By: By: Molly Irland 19 PHOTO BY BLANK

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g n li ee F

e bl a ov l Un 54

I fell in love with love from the outside looking in.

I’m fascinated by the way it changes our brain chemistry, its addictive strength, the ways it’s been rewritten in every form of art. Love is so hard to find and even harder to maintain, and yet we want to see it outlive us. When I was young I would put on plays in my backyard with the neighborhood kids. I’d cast myself as the lead – princess, pirate or rockstar – that the male lead falls for. The second the play would end and the applause would leave the yard, the love story would end with it.

I played the part well, but I was never cast as the love interest in my own real life.

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I have always been sitting on the outside of the circle of giddy girls at recess, poking my ear through the narrow gaps of bony shoulders.

They would share their first kiss stories and bond over this burning, breathing thing they all shared. High school nights were spent in dingy basements watching my friends snuggle with their boyfriends while we watched shitty horror movies. It was a bit lonely, although I did get dibs on the big bean bag. Being on the outside of the circle was something I just got used to.

I grew up right on its edge, becoming a pre-teen, teenager, and adult with only a very well-versed shoulder for one of them to cry on, allowed in, angled towards the center. Was I simply just unlovable? I thought falling in love wasn’t included in the story of my life, that I was somehow pushing it away despite my craving for it. This contradicted my confidence in all other areas of my life. I’ve always felt that I would live an expansive and beautiful life.

That I will be successful, beloved by amazing friends, travel the world and kiss beautiful people, but always remain on the outside of that Circle of Lovers.

Every person I’ve adored romantically seemed to walk away in the end. I started to question what was wrong with me. I’ve been told, in every shade of politeness and bluntness, that I am “too much”. Friends would tell me how “Guys don’t like it when you talk about sex” or “Try not to be overwhelming.” I became obsessed with learning how to make myself “lovable”, whittling away at my personality and energy. In the midst of all this work I neglected to ask: Is this the best version of myself for myself, or for society? What if my truest self doesn’t fit any mold? I can proudly say now, I have found it liberating that I’m not everyone’s ideal type. I’m simply a rare find, which makes it all the more special when the right person does fall for me.

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He won’t be emasculated by my strong personality or try to dim my light; instead, he’ll shine a spotlight on it and celebrate all of me, my cheeky comments, my bold opinions, and my giddy soul. He will look at me in complete awe - not just lust. Just as my best friends love me. For so long of my life I thought the only way for me to be in the circle was to change, but you will not need to for the right one. I no longer reach for those handbooks, because the secret, I found in all those books, is to just be you. I have come to peace knowing that I am enough.

Be easy on yourself and trust the timing of the universe because the right one will come, when you simply embrace your authentic self. For now, being alone is just as special, if not more. I suggest nothing more than to date yourself. It will be your period of the most growth. My years of solitude have been filled with nothing but love. I have discovered who I am without a partner, what love looks like and what kind I deserve.

I wouldn’t be the person I am today or undergone the amount of independence I have if I were in a relationship all of these years. Who knows, maybe Moody would have still been just an idea. I feel so lucky by the amount of love I have around me from the readers of moody, my best friends and mostly the love I have for myself.

When the right one comes I know I will be such an amazing lover, I have learned what pure love looks like through watching it and feeling it through my friendships that will last forever. I am so excited to be loved by someone that loves me as much as I love myself. Till then, I will dance around at night until the sun rises, and spread many more Moody’s around the world.

With much love, Emma (one of your Moody mamas)

I am excited to be loved by someone that loves me as much as I love myself.

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I hate the taste of coffee because of you.

Each sip is more bitter than the last, its milky sweetness spoiled now that you aren’t here to make it for me. I wander the hollow hallways of the home we made, each floorboard creak sounding like a boom in the silence. A stark difference from the thunder of us, a cacophony of yelling and lovemaking – I love yous and I hate yous. A rollercoaster that we rode for years; until one day, you got off. Dizzy and confused, I struggle to catch my bearings in this new normal.

To escape the silence, I grab my beat-up sneakers and toss my hair into a messy bun to go for a run.

I take long strides, my feet pounding each step as I weave through the hilly paths of my university.

As the balmy spring air thaws the frigidness of winter and revives my college campus, I am reminded of how much I missed running.

I’d forgotten the sweet burn that radiates down my body with each mile marked, a physical reminder that I am no longer stagnant, but free to follow my heart’s desires. Emboldened to push further, I look up from the trail I’ve looped countless times, and decide to travel a new route.

Hands over my head, I gulp the crisp air into my heaving lungs as I walk the short remainder to my house. From across the street, an old friend sits on her porch and catches sight of me. Her face lights up with a radiant smile and she stands, waving like a wild man and beckoning me to join her. I jog across the street, laughing as I give her a big, sweaty hug and plop down beside her on the patio furniture. Gossiping like schoolgirls, we giggle over silly stories and catch up on missed moments from one too many canceled plans. Somehow we let monotony get in the way of our friendship, and yet somehow we fall back into each other like no time passed at all. She always had a way of bringing out my spontaneity. If you had told me I would be at some dive bar at 2 am on a weeknight, I would have laughed in your face. But here we are, drunk and slap-happy. We slam back watered-down vodka crans and make a fool of ourselves dancing to 2000s throwbacks. She twirls me around on the dance floor and we look like idiots in our clunky waltz.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to be this blissfully happy; free from text chains of bitter accusations and desperate vows of loyalty. And for the first time in a long time, I am in the moment.

I let the music carry me away, my hips swaying back and forth as the song swells. My fingers grasp the tangles of my hair and I lift the strands from my neck, cooling myself from the heat. My friend nudges me, giggling, pointing at the handsome guy from across the bar eyeing me. He smirks, raising his glass, his gaze tracing my figure. My cheeks flush and I smile, before grabbing my friend’s hand and leading her deeper onto the dance floor. Tonight, I don’t want to think about boys. Tonight, all I want is to dance with you.

The rest of the night is a bit spotty, its moments a choppy slideshow in my mind. A flash of porcelain, from the bathroom stall that became our confessional box where we spilled out everything kept in too long.

Images of french fries and drunk munchies shoved into our mouths, as we recap our night over greasy fast food and fits of laughter. A tightly squeezed hug, sealed with a pact: to never dull myself for another person, or relinquish my independence, over the fear of being alone. Because I know now that the loneliest I’ve ever felt was when he was by my side. A promise to each other that the greatest love had is the platonic one we share.

I stumble home with a dumb smile stuck on my face and throw my keys on the table, the keychain clattering on the mahogany. The clang echoes in the dark and the house stills, the quiet embracing me.

I listen to the hush of the home’s breath, to the patter of my beating heart. The silence drags away the once all-consuming noise, and now I see a life hidden underneath. A house warm with laughter and dinner parties with friends, our lips purple from red wine.

A house big enough for me to grow into, unimpeded by another’s expectations or plans. A home quiet, so I can be as loud as I want. I sit in the silence, savoring the sound of my happy little life and this new beginning now free to unfold.

WRITING BY OLIVIA CARRERI

WRITING BY OLIVIA CARRERI

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The Story of Me

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The Story of Me

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We trivialize the phrase “love yourself ”. It’s put on pillows and littered in different fonts throughout Pinterest, but if we take a step back, we realize being with ourselves is our most precious gift. Selflove is a simple concept but not a simple action; it requires daily work to center yourself in energy of worthiness and acceptance.

As a naturally romantic person in my personal and creative worlds, when I’m single I feel lost, like a part of myself cannot be tapped into. I’ve never gone a year without a crush; shit I haven’t even gone a month.

I hated the idea of not being able to be romantic like that was a crime against self-love or independence.

But I realized that all the love I pour into other people, whether friendships or relationships, all comes from my heart, but it’s my eyes alone that paint the world into roses.

The surefire way to shame yourself into more doubts of self-hatred is to reject the human need for love.

An innate part of our being always desires companionship, closeness, and understanding. By denying ourselves the right to want love, we cut off our human instincts and wonder why we are broken. But I learned that I could look forward to finding someone to love while still fostering that love within myself.

Once I flipped the narrative from “I don’t need anyone to be happy” to “I deserve happiness in any form,” it allowed me to grow my confidence and, in turn, bloom self-love.

We’ve all heard the phrase “You can’t love someone until you love yourself,” but I can think of a good twenty people I’ve loved when I didn’t love myself. It’s easier to find the beauty in another person because you don’t hear the voices of their past telling them they aren’t worthy. I say instead we start to use this as an alternative phrase, “You can’t be fulfilled with someone until you’re fulfilled with yourself.” When you foster a foundation of love within yourself, it becomes much easier to love others and allow yourself to be loved. Your relationships can be enhanced to a whole new level because you’re existing with someone else and not letting fear into the equation. Love is energy, and it only further energizes where it passes through. No matter if you have support or not, fostering loving energy is possible because there is love in you, and that’s all you need to understand that there is love for you.

I ask you now to touch your heart, feel your palms, and look at yourself in the mirror. How whole you are? How lovable is the soul living inside you? Let that soul love you; you have that power. Let yourself love that soul without fear; let yourself love others without fear. Let people come and go; you’ll never miss out on what is meant to come for you. Love isn’t the clinging on and attachment; it’s the simple wish of happiness. Give yourself the gift of happiness.

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“IF YOU CAN’T LOVE YOURSELF, HOW IN THE HELL ARE YOU GONNA’ LOVE SOMEBODY ELSE?’’

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DRAG THE LOVE BACK TO AMERICA At the end of every episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race, RuPaul has a saying: “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you gonna’ love somebody else?’’ I believe that every legislator in the Republican party should take that question to heart. 2023 had a record breaking amount of anti-LGBTQ+ bills introduced; nearly half of the states in America passed anti-LGBTQ+ legislation last year.

Among the 510 bills introduced, 43 of them were drag related. While you might think that’s a small amount, this is just scratching the surface. Queer people have been socially suffocated for centuries, and we still are in certain countries both metaphorically and literally. In America, queer people are being more socially celebrated and accepted than ever before; because of that, certain legislators want to introduce absurd bills to put a halt in our walk to queer joy. Drag Queen Story Hour is not killing our youth, guns are. As a queer person myself, I wish I grew up knowing what a drag artist was. When you’re in the presence of a drag artist, you feel an overwhelming sense of love exuding from every fiber of their being. Not only do they love what they do, but they want you to love your experience. Drag artists are trying to do the opposite of what these bills are accusing them of. Drag is not a crime, and my hope is that our legislators will pack away their prejudice and realize that. So go to a drag show, see a drag artist and tell them you love them because they deserve it, but most importantly… VOTE! By: Jacob Tolédo

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Love is a Verb To be interesting + beautiful + fully formed (but also a half, waiting to be made whole) + ideal body + soul + aura that says, I am here, ready, to be swept up by that mysterious force = To be loveable, and therefore, loved.

The word itself, “LOVE,” is surrounded by this mystical, foggy cloud. There is an element of fantasy, of fairytale, of something supernatural. It’s as if “LOVE” exists in some faraway realm, some heavenly corner of outer space that we humans can tap into (if we’re lucky enough). And so, we’re starved for it.

We sing for it, dream of it, die for it, center our whole lives around it. We treat “LOVE” as something passive, something that exists independently, outside of ourselves, just waiting for us to fall into it. Waiting, for us to stumble upon the portal to this magical realm, and fall, and fall, and fall. Falling in “LOVE.” Of course, the portal will open up when we master the formula we write for ourselves: How to make ourselves loveable.

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The emphasis is on the self. The questions we ask revolve around the self. “How can I be loveable, and how can I attain love?” And then, when someone shows up, and they are wonderful and they adore us and we are desired, for a moment, we will feel that immortal sensation. We will think, yes, I did it, I finally made it to this point, and I am falling, falling, falling. And then we faceplant, or run the relationship right into the ground, because this whole time, we have been asking the wrong questions. But what are the right questions?

How can I be a loving person?

How can I make someone feel loved? How do I show love to another person? How do I show love to myself?

Psychologist Erich Fromm’s book, The Art of Loving, argues that love is less so a feeling, and more so an art, and like any other art, love requires knowledge, effort, practice, trial and error. Fromm goes further to describe the way capitalism has warped our ideas around love and relationships. Everything has become a sort of transaction, and even if this exists unconsciously, the pursuit of a partner is treated like shopping for a commodity.

We are trained to scale everything, even our relationships, in terms of exchange value, utility, and number of needs fulfilled. Bell Hooks’ book, All About Love, explores love as a transformative, necessary force in our lives.

She argues that love is not just something we can feel, but something we can do.

Everything sustainable and substantial in this life is built upon small acts of love. Love is a verb. A series of choices. The act of showing up, again and again and again. Love is when we realized that yoga class made our racing mind slow down, so we decide to go back tomorrow. Love is noticing that our roommate eats dark chocolate after a long day, buying it, having it there on the table, waiting for her. Love is listening to a partner speak about their passions, sharing their fascination and excitement, asking follow up questions, again and again and again.

WRITTEN BY: AUDREY WEISBURD

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TEAM

Styling: Rui Gao, Grace Ivers, Jada Williams, Amaya Evans Makeup: Aree Clarke, Cloudysky Khazraishokatkhou, Liv Dion, Annaliese Pillitteri, Tosia Mysliwiec, Jada Williams, Zoe Green, Mia Fitzloff Print Writing: Arieza Maglalang, Colette Goldstein, Elena Dickson, Haiden Nourse, Jenna Sents, Jnana Breck-Arndt, Lauren Duncan, Miguel Conception, Molly Irland, Noelle Johnson, Olivia Curreri, Sacha Wood, Sarah Dickerson, Sarah Griffiths, Tasha Karam Socials: Heavenly Reid, Tassia Konidaris, Kailyn Peng, Isabel Young, Adri Grace, Erin Bader, Natalie Steinberg, Megan Carr, Haley Long, Nicole Allen, Tanya Kler, Dailey Newcomb

CREDITS

1 Emily Hackinson (Photo) Emma Barbosa (Design) 2-3 Mia Ignazio, Adeline Hume (Photo) Mia Hernandez, Emma Lueders (Design) 4-5 Lucas Marangoni (Design) 6-7 Emma Barbosa (Art) 8-9 Jennie Bull (Design) 10-11 Alex DeFelice (Design) 12-13 Emily Hackinson (Photo), Emma Barbosa (Design) 14-15 Midjourney (Photo) Emma Barbosa (Design) 16-17 Belle Halt (Art) Jennie Bull (Design) 18-19 Na Young Yi (Photo) Jake Wheaton (Design) 20-21 Midjourney (Photo) Emma Barbosa, Belle Halt (Design) 22-23 Mia Ignazio (Photo) Isabella Genes, Emma Barbosa (Design) 24-25 Emma Barbosa (Design) 26-27 Mia Hernandez (Photo) Jake Wheaton (Design) 28-29 Mia Hernandez (Photo) Alex DeFelice (Design) 30-31 Isabella Genes (Design) 32-33 Chloe O’Rourke (Art) Jake Wheaton (Design) 34-35 Emma Barbosa (Art)

36-37 Eli Mager (Photo) Alex DeFelice (Design) 38-39 Eli Mager (Photo) Alex DeFelice (Design) 40-41 Emma Barbosa (Design) 42-42 Alex Defelice (Design) 44-45 Mia Ignazio (Photo) Emma Barbosa, Jennie Bull (Design) 46-47 Mia Ignazio (Photo) Emma Barbosa (Design) 48-49 Na Young Yi (Photo) Jennie Bull (Design) 50-51 Emma Barbosa (Design) 52-53 Laura Kna (Design) 54-57 Eli Mager (Photo) Isabella Genes (Design) 58-59 Isabella Genes (Design) 60-61 Emma Barbosa (Art) 62-63 Mia Ignazio (Photo) Nash Pena (Design) 64-65 Frida Braide (Photo) Jennie Bull (Design) 66-67 Ella Tovey (Photo) Jennie Bull (Design) 68-71 Adeline Hume, Mia Ignazio (Photo) Liam Hagen, Jennie Bull (Design) 72-73 Adeline Hume (Photo) Emma Barbosa (Design) 74-75 Jake Wheaton (Design) 76-77 Adeline Hume, Mia Ignazio (Photo) Emma Barbosa (Design) 78 Emily Hackinson (Photo)

Web Graphics: Nahhah Landon, Casey Murt, Shea Pena, Zoe Papps, Shota Pinko Kate Armes, Kate Carmen, Isabella Genes, Laura Knaflewski, Rachel Kessel, Kerry Fleming, Anastasia Roberts, Anthony Fox Videography: Erin Bader, Kylie Martin, Sara Kirschner Photography: Adeline Hums, Ella Tovey, Eli Mager, Lev Kerlow, Emily Hackinson, Mia Hernandez, Allison Lopez, Na Young Yi, Natalie Serratos, Frida Braide Web Writing: Michaela Baxter, Liv Curreri, Alexa Cipriano, Lauren Duncan, Mia Hernandez, Mia Jones, Britney Kirwan, Yoonji Lee, Lo Loveridge, Sofia Peralta, Ruh Taylor, Kandra Zaw, Emily Zito Print Graphics: Alex DeFelice, Belle Halt, Casey Murt, Isabella Genes, Jake Wheaton, Jennie Bull, Joanne Fu, Kerry Fleming, Laura Kna, Liam Hagen, Lucas Marangoni Web Development: James Kinsley, Tanya Keller Public Relations: Idan Jaffe, Megan Carr, Dora Bremond, Isabel Young, Liv Burton, Tahlia Potter, Richie Sumaili, Shayla Ismael, Tiffany Hyon Fiscal/RSO: Valeria Martinez Set Design: Annaliese Pillitteri

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