For 10 minutes every morning, I stare into the gaping hole that is my closet trying to decide what I am going to wear. Initially, I thought living in a dorm would help: A tiny closet would force me to pare down my wardrobe to the bare minimum. ­­Instead, I find myself frustrated, knowing that my Arizona uniform of tank tops and shorts isn’t going to cut it during an Ithaca winter.

Yet, as indecisive as I am, I know I should be lucky that I even have a choice over what I wear. It wasn’t until last week, when I heard about Lubna Ahmed Hussein, that I realized it could be any different.

Hussein, a Sudanese journalist, was dining out with friends when authorities raided the restaurant, arresting Hussein and several of her friends.

The debate of the century: where do I want to spend my nights? Options: in bed, with a tall, dark, and handsome half black-half white masterpiece of a man; at the informative, and equally attractive (but not jump-into-bed-with) Cornell Daily Sun; at MVR in the FSAD studio with my artsy (but, lets face it, I won’t be getting laid) friends, Leah and John; or in bed, alone.