You can make fun of the French for just about anything, the protests ranging from petty to substantial. On the serious end of the spectrum, you have the occasional display of racial backwardness, the undeviating tendency to go on strike and the labyrinthine bureaucracy (try procuring a visa from the consulate; you’ll think you’re being ushered through the Château d’If).

Last semester, I dared my super macho Russian next-door neighbor to the ultimate test: “I dare you to sit through The Notebook and NOT cry.” Everyone cries during The Notebook. He didn’t. He sat through the whole movie and although his eyes were sort of glassy when the lights came on, my tears could have filled the entirety of Cayuga Lake.

Some things are never quite left behind from high school: the acne, the immaturity, the insecurities, the need for social acceptance, but most importantly, the unexplainable urge to create drama. We all claim to hate it and that we’re too good for it. But, come on. Who are we kidding? We’re not in high school, but our mentality is perpetually stuck in it. We thrive on drama because it’s probably the most exciting thing that happens in Ithaca other than a frat party and maybe acing a prelim. It always starts with something small. Then through a series of he-said-she-said miscommunications, one thing leads to another until it finally explodes and turns into an episode of Gossip Girl. And I’m not going to deny it: girls do start most, if not all, of the drama and insist on adding fuel to the fire. Sometimes, for absolutely no reason. Just because, y’know, you have to tell someone if Amanda is being, like, such a bitch — gawd!

This Spring Break I went to my first strip club. It’s a trip that’s been a long time coming. I turned 18 and rather than looking forward to being able to buy a pack of smokes (I didn’t smoke) or get a lottery ticket (who cares) or buy porn (do people still do that?), I looked forward to going to a strip club. But it didn’t happen. So they’ve been shrouded in mystery to me for a while.

A solid fourth of my Spice-Girls-Era diaries is filled with food porn: hot sessions with Kit Kat in the girl’s locker room, sexually frustrating make out binges with Bubble Tape and steamy afternoons spent spooning a large, sweaty bowl of hot chocolate. After I die, those three Jesus Loves Me diaries will survive me for years to come, leaving my offspring generations of discomfort, knowing that Great Great Great GranShan, the matriarch of their race of enormous gingers, was a checkout-lane-item fetishist.