Unfortunately, at the time of its release, the series struggled to gain mainstream recognition. Airing at a time when female-centered narratives were hardly network staples, Gilmore Girls lacked the award-season credibility that buoyed its contemporaries. It lived in the margins of early-2000s television until 2014, when Netflix acquired the streaming rights, and that single distribution shift rewrote its fate. Younger viewers, specifically Generation Z, discovered the fast-talking Lorelai—pregnant at sixteen with her daughter, later best friend Rory—and the imperious matriarch, Emily, who demanded nothing but the best from her lineage. 

Each of these women represent not only distinct personalities but a relatable combination of traumas: the weight of expectation, the impulse toward rebellion, the ache of misunderstanding. Though Lorelai and Rory’s rapid-fire rapport tends to define the show’s public image, its core excellence lies in Lorelai’s volatile relationship with Emily. Halfway through the pilot, the two slip into an argument so expertly rendered that it functions simultaneously as backstory, exposition, and emotional thesis. The scene depicts a mother-daughter dynamic that’s both suffocating and symbiotic—a blueprint for intergenerational tension that still resonates with audiences today.

This resonance, though, extends beyond the series’ portrayal of family. Gilmore Girls has become synonymous with the arrival of autumn, and each year, as temperatures drop, fans queue up its theme song: Carole King’s “Where You Lead I Will Follow.” Paradoxically, much of the series does not actually take place during fall. Its seasonal identity was instead forged through its use of saturated film stock, shot on 16mm and 35mm, delivering a soft, grainy warmth increasingly rare in the modern era of hyper-sharp digital imagery. For millennials and Generation Z, the visual palette offers an aesthetic nostalgia: a retreat into a world without omnipresent screens, unattainable real-estate prices, or the daily churn of political dread. Gilmore Girls exists in a bubble; hermetically sealed, improbably cozy, and forever witty. 

However, nostalgia can only gloss over so much. A product of its time, the series carries the unmistakable signature of early-2000s whiteness.  Its attempts at diversity, while present, are limited and often stereotypical. Lane Kim, Rory’s best friend, is a Korean-American teen, boxed into the trope of a strict immigrant mother and a discreetly rebellious daughter who’d pick a Whopper over kimchi any day. Michel, the only Black character of note, remains largely defined by his arrogance and was only retroactively confirmed as gay in the 2016 revival. The reboot itself did little to address these shortcomings, instead drawing criticism for jokes aimed at faceless plus-sized characters. Even when the show was first airing, creator Amy Sherman-Palladino was not shy about her fervent love for Israel, sprinkling in odes to the country: from a “Welcome to Israel” poster in Rory’s bedroom to a scene in which Rory spouts Zionist talking points while debating another student at Yale. As Sherman-Palladino’s political stances have become more visible, these moments have pulled the series into contemporary controversy it was never built to withstand. 

Still, the show’s appeal relentlessly endures. Each year millions return to Stars Hollow for the same reasons: the sharpness of its writing and the meticulous sincerity of its relationships. In a media landscape crowded with prestige dramas and cynical reboots, Gilmore Girls remains powered by this increasingly rare blend of talents. Its legacy as an autumnal watching ritual persists not merely out of nostalgia, but out of love for the female and family representation it provides.

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With the subsequent release of the star’s twelve-track record on October 3rd, the toll of the death knell disappeared any lingering hopes of a return to the tantalizing pop-perfection that was Swift’s 1989. Labelled by the singer herself as “catching lightning in a bottle,” this recent release fell devastatingly short of such a claim, lacking a clear connection between the record’s title and its lackluster lyrical content.

An egregious example comes in the form of Showgirl’s fifth track, which is a placement canonically reserved for Swift’s most devastating lyrical confessions. Titled “Eldest Daughter,” the track struggles to find any type of sensical narrative, swaying between “I’m never gonna let you down” and “Every eldest daughter / Was the first lamb to the slaughter … and we looked fire.” While the star seems to be addressing her athletic beau, the song collapses into numerous tirades surrounding a childhood reality check, Swift’s inability to act “punk,” and finding one’s twin flame in a “youngest child.” Not only does the song lack direction, the writing itself is also some of Swift’s worst. When compared to her earth-shattering ballad from just one year earlier, “I Hate It Here”: “I hate it here so I will go to lunar valleys in my mind / When they found a better planet, only the gentle survived”the singer’s facile delivery of, “I’m not a bad bitch, and this isn’t savage” sounds like an embarrassing outtake from a Bo Burnham special.

In addition to Swift seemingly losing her lyrical prowess, the eventual out-of-touch fate of every billionaire has also wrapped around her work like a vice. The tenth track, “CANCELLED!” is a particularly visceral example of this, as she proudly announces, “Good thing I like my friends cancelled / I liked ‘em cloaked in Gucci and in scandal.” While a good-faith interpretation of the song may give Swift the benefit of the doubt (her intention being to clear up any misconceptions surrounding her
scrutinized friendship with Blake Lively), the singer still chose to release a one-dimensional and smug diatribe against “the haters.” One can see she is clearly neglecting to take accountability for the very valid criticism she’s received about her carbon footprint, her silence surrounding the genocide in Gaza and lack of commentary about one of the most turbulent presidential reigns in recent American history.

Although many listeners share this viewpoint, countless self-proclaimed “Swifties” are defending the track and the album, claiming that it’s not so different from other rage-filled songs such as the star’s 2017 single “Look What You Made Me Do.” While not one of Swift’s best lyrical showcases, this Reputation track far outweighs our current example’s trite reference to the star’s 2016 cancellation. The biting electropop banger signaled a sharp and cutting shift in Swift’s direction at the time, watching her lean into the performance of pop culture’s villainous beauty queen: “And then the world
moves on, but one thing’s for sure / Maybe I got mine, but you’ll all get yours.” Meanwhile, “CANCELLED!” is a superficial, politically tone-deaf drag that harps on about an eight-year-old wound that is the least of the listener’s worries: “Did you girl-boss too close to the sun? … Come with me, when they see us, they’ll run.”

Swift does manage one major success on Showgirl: a catchy and picturesque four track run that opens the album with a bang. “The Fate of Ophelia” is a complete earworm, despite the lyricism being somewhat overwrought with extensive use of trivial expressions; while track three’s “Opalite” is an infectious pop ray of light, detailing how the singer managed to make her own happiness in spite of “life [beating her] up.”

A standout productional moment finds itself on “Elizabeth Taylor,” a brooding and sensual electropop heavyweight reminiscent of Swift’s 2017 track, “Don’t Blame Me.” The infamous production duo, Max Martin and Shellback, have managed to measure up to their historically proven pop perfection with Swift injecting the song with some of the album’s most interesting narrative moments: “All the right guys / Promised they’d stay / Under bright lights / They withered away.”

Track four, “Father Figure,” is, in my opinion, the record’s magnum opus, as Swift manages to take on the role of both naïve ingenue and calculating overlord. Rather than fighting off allegations of fake niceties, the star touts that her “dick’s bigger” than those of the men who used her (a nod to her disillusionment with her relationship with former manager and American music executive Scott Borchetta), while claiming her spot on the throne of pop music’s kingdom. Still, many listeners may read the menacing track as power-hungry, a possible stab at newer artists looking to the singer for
guidance. Swift’s befuddling relationship with 22-year-old pop sensation Olivia Rodrigo might re-enter
fan discourse; however, the song is strong enough to withstand any character-related criticism directed at Swift. If only she could have made the album’s other tracks clever enough to outweigh the inevitable resentful accusations thrown her way.

The Life of a Showgirl is one of Swift’s most confusing and, let’s face it, bad pieces of work. From stumbling lyricism to practically offensive levels of reality detachment, the star has finally proved to listeners that she’s reached that unfortunate peak of elitist societal withdrawal. “They want that yacht life, under chopper blades / They want those bright lights and Balenci’ shades” she croons on track eight’s “Wi$h Li$t.” Frankly, most listeners simply want a disposable income, but the star may not be aware of such meager goals when she was recently spotted wearing a 26 thousand dollar necklace to dinner in Kansas City.

Regrettably for Swift, money cannot buy her most important asset: relatability. Known and beloved by fans for her unpretentious lack of cool-girl status, the singer has built much of her career on being the popstar-next-door who prefers “t-shirts” over “short skirts.” The Life of a Showgirl blatantly turns this carefully constructed legacy on its head, proudly promoting that Swift herself now knows “the life of a
showgirl” and she’ll “never know another.” Sadly, this closing remark highlights the worrying questions left behind by Swift’s lackluster release: where did the independent, emotionally sprawling singer go, and will we ever get her back?

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But are these friendships built to last, or do they fade as quickly as they form? 

For most McGill students, residence acts as a social fast-track. Pack a few hundred 18-year-olds into the same building and friendships seem to form overnight. Roommates become confidantes, hallways turn into hangout spots, and shared kitchens double as confessionals.

But proximity can be a double-edged sword: seemingly unshakable friendships often fade by move-out day. Many first-year friendships grow out of convenience. While shared classes and dorms  provide instant companionship, these friendships often lack the depth to endure. Once schedules shift and students scatter across the city, these first-year connections undergo their greatest test: to discover whether or not they can survive.

By second and third year, the social map shifts. Most students move off-campus, trading residences for apartments. Without the built-in convenience of bumping into friends in the elevator or grabbing a late-night snack in the common room, maintaining connections suddenly requires planning. Hangouts must be scheduled, transit routes considered, and calendars synced, especially as majors and minors narrow students onto different academic tracks. The result? Social circles usually  shrink, but the friendships that remain deepen. Instead of dozens of surface-level bonds, students invest in fewer relationships strong enough to withstand summers apart and the physical sprawl of city life. 

By fourth year, the social landscape has largely settled. The structures that once fostered accidental encounters have been replaced by more intentional networks: study groups, long-term club connections, and departmental associations. Friendships evolve, with some connections fading after a season, and others deepening through shared investment and mutual growth. The result is a smaller, yet more resilient circle of friends who leave McGill with enduring relationships. 

But, what happens when a student enters into McGill’s social scene halfway through their degree? Exchange students know this challenge well. Unlike first-year students in residence, they arrive without a built-in network. Instead, they rely on connections made back at their home university or friendships made in class. One exchange student explained that not living in residence has made them feel “less pressurized to feel part of McGill,” and allows them to enjoy Montreal on their own terms. Yet, it also meant they were “not immediately integrated into McGill life.” While clubs, orientation events, and other university-organized programs exist to help students socialize, these events can be difficult to access or simply go unnoticed. As our interviewee explained: “there was an exchange orientation that my friends said had such a long queue they left.” Because exchange students often lack built-in networks and face limited access to social events, friendships tend to form slowly. And, when opportunities like orientation events are overcrowded or inaccessible, it becomes even more difficult to find and build lasting connections. This interviewee’s perspective shines a light on both the strengths and limitations of McGill’s social infrastructure: while it provides numerous initial points of contact for students, those connections do not always guarantee depth or longevity. 

Friendships at McGill are shaped as much by its institutional structures as by the students themselves. From residence halls to intentional networks, the university creates both opportunities and limitations for connection. If friendships are solely fostered through orientation programs and clubs, what does that say about the ties we form? Are they truly organic, or are we simply navigating the infrastructure that McGill provides? And for students entering midstream, how can our university better balance accessibility and depth in its design?

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Every year, countless students escape Montreal’s brutal winter in favour of destinations promising warmth and endless parties. Unfortunately, this form of tourism also generates the perfect playground for reckless behaviour as routines are abandoned, study habits dissolve into weekday partying, and the thrill of rebellion takes over. 

In 2024, The Toronto Sun released an article exposing the disgusting aftermath of spring breakers who left a Georgia beach littered with, well, litter. Initially posted to social media, the coverage sparked outrage, with many commenters criticizing the blatant disrespect shown by student tourists.

While cities anticipate this type of behaviour, preparing for an influx of young party-goers each year, Florida’s beaches have become particularly notorious for such scenes. In preparation for 2025’s spring season, Miami Beach, Fort Lauderdale, and Daytona Beach ramped up police surveillance in an effort to control the state’s annual mayhem. While stricter law enforcement has led to a decline in overall attendance, it has not stopped many students from making the trip south. 

Meanwhile, publications continue to cater to spring breakers eager to make the most of their vacation. In March 2025, The Palm Beach Post published a guide outlining alcohol regulations across Florida’s beaches, providing visitors with crucial tips for a trouble-free break. While these efforts to maintain order can be helpful, they also highlight a broader question: how do trip guides contribute to the commercialization of spring break?

An influx of tourists means an influx of spending, and the authors of travel tricks and city guides are well aware of this. While they aim to make student travel as hassle-free as possible, their efforts go far beyond convenience. Travel expenses often go hand-in-hand with fashion purchases, as many students feel pressured to “look their best” on vacation. Packing lists and travel recommendations are frequently designed to push products, reinforcing the notion that a trip will be ruined without certain must-haves. Brands of all sizes capitalize on this mindset, launching spring ad campaigns and exclusive deals to entice buyers.

However, with the rise of social media, companies no longer need to work as hard to drive demand. Influencers eagerly take on that role, showcasing their spring break hauls across YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram. Fast fashion brands like SHEIN benefit from this cycle, offering trendy, budget-friendly pieces that fuel the desire to stay stylish without breaking the bank.

But what do these trends truly offer their buyers? Where do these products end up? And who ultimately profits from student spending? The answer, for many of us, is already clear.

Litter and waste take many forms: empty bottles scattered across sandy beaches from last night’s festivities and plastic bikinis worn once, now sinking to the ocean floor. Spring break is not just a trip; it is a product, commercialized by brands and influencers who sell it as the experience of a lifetime, a week to go wild, the ultimate university vacation. 

Spring break should be a time to unwind, not an obligation to overspend on microplastics and fleeting trends. A good time should not come with a price tag. Corny or not, the truth stands: a trip’s defining moments, the ones that last, are found in the people you are with and the memories you create together. Those must-have sandals? Quickly forgotten.

In an interview with The News Movement, Charli xcx distilled the essence of brat down to just a few essentials: a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a white, strappy tank worn with no bra. The album and its aesthetic are not driven by consumerism, but instead prove that style and attitude do not require excess. It remains trendy and accessible without being built on piles of microplastics—though her later collaboration with H&M complicates this message. Her partnership with a major retailer inevitably ties it to an industry that encourages accumulation rather than minimalism, raising questions about the sustainability of its aesthetic ideals.

Nevertheless, Charli suggests that these few items are all one needs to embody the party-girl energy of her music, which speaks to a larger cultural message: you do not need “stuff” to be cool, to have fun, or to fit in. It is about the vibe you bring to the function, the energy you carry inside yourself, and the joy you share with the people closest to you.

So, the next time “Spring breakers” plays or you find yourself reminiscing about a past trip, think about the memories you made. Did the swimsuits you wore define those moments? The essence of spring break lies not in the excess but in the moments that prove you never truly needed it.

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