Tumblr is a great place for tidbits of wisdom that are inspirational, but useless: “If you’re tired of starting over, then stop giving up,” says a picture of a girl running on the beach, with a ridiculous amount of notes and reblogs. It’s a great looking quote for the “About me” section of your Facebook profile, but in terms of viable advice, it’ll end up being little more than fodder for the same part of your brain where you store the “Word of the Day” and “Daily Buddhist Wisdom.”

The ‘90s were a good time for the music industry — a time of excess and record-breaking releases, when artists could sell millions of records the week they were released, when Tower Records still existed and CDs didn’t just collect dust. The best selling album of the decade — the soundtrack to “The Bodyguard” — sold 11 million copies the year it was released (a number unheard of these days), largely attributed to the inclusion of Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You,” among other tracks by the singer. 

In essence, it was Whitney’s time.

So, let’s get a few things straight: I am not a food critic. I have no culinary training and can’t afford to even utter the words “fine dining.” Truth is, I’m just a broke college student who knows what she likes to eat. And to the girl whose heart is located directly in the pit of her stomach, a burrito is the epitome of a perfectly balanced comfort meal.

Four seasons is enough to dub “Breaking Bad” one of the best television dramas out there. It’s the show that has been called “Weeds” on meth, the show that single-handedly changed everyone’s perception of Hal from “Malcolm in the Middle” and the show that taught fans to “respect the chemistry.” Season four ended with a bang, literally. Arguably one of the best season finales ever produced, the show made us question, again, the morality of Bryan Cranston’s evil protagonist. We want to know more.

For years, the most desperate desire of my materialist heart was to own an iPhone. And now, one AT&T contract after having this wish fulfilled, I can finally face the truth.
It was all a waste. I was never meant to have a smartphone.

Due to my friend’s incessant reminders, I am well aware of the fact that Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival is this weekend. And no, I’m not going.

I usually try to steer clear of making generalizations about a group of people, but this time I can’t help it: Conspiracy theorists are total freaks.

Talking about the insignificance of the Grammy Awards is kind of like making fun of Nicolas Cage; its awfulness is so universally acknowledged that there’s really no point to it at all. Nonetheless, it’s still strange that a once-respected music industry institution has fallen so far. A Grammy used to be the greatest honor in music; now it’s standard "Cribs" décor.

There’s a scene in the 1999 tree-kissing SNL movie “Superstar” in which socially awkward Catholic school girl Mary Katherine Gallagher (Molly Shannon) is approached at lunch by popular guy Sky Corrigan (Will Ferrell, the quintessential hot teenager, of course). Sky tells Mary that he saw her doing the robot outside. “You have some nice moves!” he says. It’s then repeated in slow motion: “Niiiiiiice mooooooooooves . . . oooooooves.”

At this point, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to admit that I don’t pay for my music. I can’t remember the last time I bought a CD, and the lowly vinyl collection I began my sophomore year of high school is mostly comprised of my parents’ old records. It now sits in my room, collecting dust.