While attempting to find dorm decor ideas, on Pinterest, of course, I was met with absolutely nothing fun. As I scrolled, a graveyard of white rooms filled with white furniture and maybe a single plant shivering in the corner, if that, flooded my screen.

I wondered, have these people never spilled a cup of coffee in their lifetime? I can’t imagine accidentally tracking dirt into their room. Does minimalism assume we all hover a few inches off the ground? Being in minimalist spaces feels like I’m being punished for having a personality.

Think of those moms you see on TikTok painting their babies’ plastic toys shades of grey and beige to match their living rooms. I don’t know about everyone else, but I always feel sad for their baby. It’s like they’re in some sort of cult where you can’t own more than three mugs, and any statement rug or pop of color is an act of treason punishable by excommunication.

To be honest, I went through a phase where I tried to be a minimalist. I packed up all my graphic t-shirts and took down my wall decor, replacing it with a few framed prints. I felt like the only way to secure my identity as a “clean girl” was to replace everything in my life with a beige alternative.

And I hate to admit it, but I enjoyed it for a little while. I was living out my Instagram influencer dreams, starring in my very own skincare commercial. I drank lemon water and wore my hair in a claw clip. I walked into my room and thought, “Yes, this is the habitat of a woman who does Pilates and starts her day at 5 a.m.” For about 72 hours, I really believed I had ascended.

But then, the worst thing possible happened — I caught a cold. The whole illusion crumbled as the sleek surface of my nightstand was ruined with a single used tissue. To be a true “clean girl,” I had to erase every trace of my existence — no graphic tees or silly doodles on post-its adorning my walls. Suddenly, I was living in a jail cell, except my only crime was loving patterns. It started to feel like I was living in a staged bedroom at IKEA.

By the end of the week, I had fully caved. I put up a few of my posters again, and it all snowballed. I had a maximalist relapse. If minimalism is sobriety, I was drunk on clutter again, and it was glorious.

Trends can inspire some people, illuminating a style they didn’t know existed before and helping them to find their own way in the world. However, it’s easy to lean into your own ways so heavily that you make others feel like their natural style isn’t valid, and maybe even that it’s embarrassing.

Your home isn’t an Instagram grid — it’s your personal space. Whether you feel like your identity flourishes with clutter or bare walls, the important thing is that it reflects your true self. At the end of the day, your space should make you feel at home, not like you’re staring into someone else’s commercial.

Everything cycles in and out of popularity, and there was a period where maximalism was all the rage. The ’70s were defined by bold colors, shag carpets and funky patterns, and over-the-top glam, neon and clashing aesthetics owned the ’80s.

I’m not saying my maximalist personality is some groundbreaking discovery, but minimalism also isn’t new. It had waves in the ’90s (think sleek IKEA modernism) and is now resurfacing on TikTok as a “clean girl” aesthetic. What’s “in” now has been “out” before and most likely will be again.

Chasing trends is exhausting because they’re entirely cyclic — what’s considered “timeless minimalism” today can feel entirely dated and tacky tomorrow. If you try to design your entire life around a trend, you will always feel behind, and at some point, the beige wallpaper will feel as gaudy as your mom’s ’80s wallpaper. So why not just decorate your space in a way that feels like you?

If people enjoy their minimalist homes, all the power to them. Personally, I believe everyone should live their truth, and if minimalism is yours, that’s all that matters. Everything of mine sparks joy for me, so I can’t Marie Kondo my way into living like that.

Collecting tchotchkes is my personal rebellion against the minimalist takeover, and I have tried to reframe my clutter as proof of living, not failing — I’ll be buried with my trinkets before I let the beige win. Minimalism may own Pinterest, and maybe even TikTok right now, but maximalists own souls.

Proudly stack your books, display tiny, maybe useless toys, embrace loud patterns and spill your coffee without fear.

Mia Kirisits is a sophomore majoring in psychology.

Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the Staff Editorial.

But nights out began to feel routine. We went to the same bars, were constantly crashed into by the same sweaty frat boys, and I ended up burning out faster and faster. Suddenly, I was routinely Ubering home alone at midnight, and I realized this was an utter waste of my time.

I came home feeling drained and broke, and I spent the rest of my weekend hungover and annoyed with myself. I understand that some people don’t experience this, and some may even look forward to a late night out on the town. I don’t enjoy the atmosphere of just dancing for hours with no conversation.

If I’m going to be inebriated, I want to be high, laughing with my friends and chatting through slurred words. Honestly, I probably started smoking weed a little too young, but of course, I never felt “too young” in the moment. Every once in a while, you’ll catch me and my friends out, but more likely than not, we’re all in our pajama pants, lighting up and watching a movie.

Because the routine of drinking and recovering has become so ingrained in many people’s social lives — and smoking and hanging out in mine — I didn’t realize that other people’s perceptions of weed culture were so different from my own. I had asked my roommate, “When you think of a ‘stoner,’ what type of person do you picture?”

She guffawed, knowing it was for my article, and rambled on with adjectives describing a guy wearing a beanie covering his shaggy hair and lots of layers of hoodies or flannels. “I guess I picture someone who just doesn’t really care about anything,” she said.

Was this how everyone saw me? Had I tarnished my clean slate college gave me and given myself a reputation of being lazy? Without giving away any identities, I can confidently say I know a lot of very driven and productive people who still roll up and let their troubles go sometimes. I don’t think I even know anyone who smokes that fits the description my roommate gave me. Are they the exception to the rule, or is the rule just completely made up?

In my opinion, the stoner stereotype has dissipated as weed has become more normalized through legalization efforts throughout the country. You no longer can look at someone and immediately know if they’re a stoner — and that’s a good thing.

A 2024 study published in Social Psychological and Personality Science studied the behaviors and emotional states of 260 recreational users who smoked weed at least three times a week, tracking apathy and motivation levels throughout various activities. The study found no significant difference, uncovering that “participants were just as willing and motivated to complete a task when they were high as when they were sober.” While subjects were slightly less likely to do tasks that made them feel upset, there was no less motivation or willingness to challenge themselves while high.

However, when we look into the effects of alcohol on the brain, it can negative affect our productivity. When intoxicated, our cognitive abilities and the capacity to assess information and situations accurately are limited, resulting in illogical conclusions and unwise decisions. For college students, this means that we may ignore risks and make mistakes that ultimately negatively affect productivity. Drinking alcohol is also associated with restrictions to creativity and problem-solving abilities, hindering productivity and innovation both in projects and among teams.

Overall, weed doesn’t come with these drawbacks. While society points the finger at stoners for being unproductive or lazy, we should be equally critical of “party people” and drinking culture, which, in college, is so deeply ingrained in our social fabric that the negative qualities associated with the stoner stereotype do not apply. So no, I don’t think getting high now and then makes me some burnt-out, unmotivated mess — or anyone else, unless that’s the vibe you’re going for (in which case, power to you). The stoner stereotype is seriously outdated.

These days, it’s less “I forgot what day it is” and more “I’m high-functioning and high, simultaneously.” I mean, I’ve seen my friends crush internship interviews, submit 15-page papers and perfectly roll a joint — all in the same day. If that’s not productivity, I don’t know what is. However, I don’t see my friends who prefer drinking finish a paper while drunk, and I don’t think that would end as well because of how alcohol affects our brain and perception of things.

We’re not lounging around in tie-dye mumbling about the universe (well, not all the time). More often than not, we’re in sweatpants, eating popcorn way too loudly and arguing over which movie to watch for the hundredth time. And yeah, sometimes we light up first — but that just makes the debate over “The Lion King” vs. “Tangled” all the more intense.

I’m still figuring it all out — how to chase dreams, be responsible, stay grounded and occasionally get a little lifted. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that enjoying weed doesn’t cancel out ambition, and a good laugh with your friends can be just as important as a night out. Maybe even better — especially if there are snacks involved.

Mia Kirisits is a freshman majoring in psychology.

Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the staff editorial.

Tate is primarily recognized for advocating a lifestyle focused on wealth, masculinity and personal growth, yet his opinions have generated considerable debate, as he is known for misogynistic rhetoric and toxic masculinity. In an interview discussing women in the sex industry while in relationships, Tate said, “She belongs to him, and the intimate parts of her body belong to him because they’re in a relationship, and if she wants to sell those, he has a stake in those parts of her body.” However, when asked if the same would apply if the roles were reversed, he said, “I don’t know, because I think the woman belongs to the man.”

This type of discourse he encourages has garnered a significant following among young men while also resulting in considerable backlash, including being prohibited from various social media sites. His remarks and behaviors have also caused legal troubles, including a widely covered arrest in Romania in 2022 on allegations of human trafficking and organized crime, which he refutes.

Before he began podcasting, Andrew and his brother Tristan operated a webcam pornography business. Tate brags, in multiple interviews, how he started with 75 women who had no experience in the porn industry and seduced them into joining. He says that he wanted to share his knowledge of how he “managed females in those scenarios, how I controlled their emotions, how I convinced them to work and give me most of their money, how I convinced them to share me with other women, why they obeyed me.”

So, he crafted Hustlers University, his online school now rebranded as “The Real World,” which claimed to provide financial success to those who bought his courses. Tate specifically attracted young men through ostentatious displays of wealth, misleadingly suggesting they could attain similar success by adhering to his teachings. The program preyed on insecurities, idolizing hustle culture and male supremacy while taking advantage of a young, impressionable fan base with minimal financial literacy.

However, most of its lessons were basic, recycled content readily available for free on the internet. Numerous users suspected that the true profit came from bringing in new members rather than from the business models being taught.

Although freedom of speech is a fundamental right, there exists a distinction between exercising that freedom and disseminating damaging, persuasive beliefs, especially for profit. Podcasts such as Tate’s do more than express viewpoints — they influence the perspectives of young audiences who might lack the skills to evaluate them critically. Social media algorithms only enhance this impact, promoting these videos to the feeds of users who frequently remain oblivious to the harm they consume.

This has been especially true for middle and high school boys whose algorithms bring them straight to Tate’s content. Teachers across the country have reported an increase in male students repeating sexist ideals in the classroom, even using exact comebacks that Tate uses on his show, like “What color is your Bugatti?” which Tate uses to brag about possessions. Sarah Milianta-Laffin, a seventh-grade teacher in Ewa Beach, Hawaii, says, “There’s been a huge increase in rape jokes that the boys are making.” Because of the pandemic, delay in social skills and increasing screen time, many of these boys can’t recognize how problematic Tate’s content is on their own.

Middle schoolers are at a vital point of self-exploration, which makes them susceptible to figures like Tate, who provides a perspective that prioritizes and centers them and their significance. However, Tate is a literal sex trafficker (allegedly), so why do young boys readily ignore this? From my understanding, a mix of psychological bias, misinformation and social influences keep them from accepting the reality of the accusations against him. Tate and his supporters actively spread misinformation, claiming the charges are false or part of a conspiracy. Due to the unwavering trust he’s garnered, most followers repeat these narratives without critically analyzing the evidence. We must account for online echo chambers, where social media algorithms push content that reinforces existing beliefs for the sake of young fans, who mostly see content that portrays Tate as a victim rather than a criminal.

Experts in extremism and sociology, such as Mairead Moloney and Pasha Dashtgard, argue that Tate’s allure stems from appealing to boys who feel disconnected from feminist discussions. According to Dashtgard, Tate is feeding on a common struggle: “I’m a young boy … I don’t know how to talk to women; I’m insecure.”

Another aspect of the allure could come from “edge lord” culture, which has been on the rise over the last decade and allows personas to deliberately discuss offensive or nihilistic topics to shock other users and gain traction. For young boys, edge lord culture has fed into their belief that being “edgy” and even offensive makes you cooler, so they pick up this habit to combat feelings of exclusion or social rejection.

This feeds into one of Tate’s popular references, red pill culture. “Swallowing the red pill” refers to a man “waking up” and learning the “truth” about female nature and that feminism is the oppression of men. These red-pilled podcasts take advantage of and heighten feelings of inadequacy and frustration, particularly when numerous young men may grapple with their identity and role in society. They are overwhelmed with stories that set them against women, depicting feminism as something that devalues their significance. This ongoing narrative of “us versus them” fosters bitterness, often trapping these young audiences in patterns of toxic masculinity that they lack the maturity to scrutinize critically.

Tate and his associates flourish in this setting, exploiting social media algorithms to enhance visibility and guarantee their messages reach young, impressionable audiences. The spread of such material is risky as it provides oversimplified answers to intricate problems. A young man facing difficulties may easily accept that his life challenges stem from a societal change that benefits women rather than exploring deeper, systemic problems or pursuing healthier avenues for personal development. The irony lies in the fact that these podcasts, which assert they provide self-improvement, are actually guiding many towards a detrimental path that hinders their potential.

The answer to this increasing influence is found in media literacy, parental support and educational initiatives to combat these harmful ideologies before they become deeply established. Tate was not the first to bring harmful views to the internet, and he won’t be the last. Teachers, guardians and even friends must participate in candid, sincere discussions with youth regarding these influencers and the harmful stories they advocate. It’s essential to instruct the upcoming generation that genuine empowerment arises not from belittling others or adhering to negative stereotypes but from respect, empathy and fairness. If we neglect to tackle this issue now, the repercussions could resonate for generations ahead.

Mia Kirisits is a freshman majoring in psychology.

Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the staff editorial.