It’s the most wonderful week of the year. The countdown for Spring Break has begun. Less than three days until the chains are broken from academia for the glorious week of freedom, relaxation and much needed rest. With the warmer weather finally setting in, Spring Break is on the horizon.

Yet students this week wouldn’t know what that horizon looks like because it is blocked with an opaque Green Monster-esque wall of prelims, papers and projects that have all been so conveniently simultaneously scheduled. Add the loss of an hour to Daylight Saving Time and this week is just special.

As I sit in Uris Library downing my fourth orange mocha frappuchino and forcing policies and concepts into my already over-filled cranium, my mind wanders onto much more jocular Spring Break-like thoughts. What follows next is a diary of these thoughts while I plot life after my escape from incarceration in the Fish Bowl. If you too require a lapse from memorizing organic molecules, indulge my arbitrary ruminations.

First off, who can sidestep March Madness? This is a great time of the year, and kudos to Cornell for coordination. While the tournament’s first two days fall at the end of this devilish week, we overworked and underpaid students get to enjoy the bulk of the tourney (and the more intriguing second and third rounds) while on break. Hallelujah and go Irish!

Speaking of hallelujah, I would be totally irresponsible if I did not emphasize how important it is to get back to your roots and show reverence to your religion this break — especially if you’re Catholic, Irish, or just like to drink. St. Patrick’s Day is the one day of the year where public intoxication by noon is socially acceptable and expected. Congratulations to Cornell once again on timing. Coinciding a national drinking day at the end of one of the most stressful and demanding weeks of the semester is brilliant. If the rest of Cornell is anything like me, the one thing I want to do after a long, hard week is sit back, relax, get some friends together and … get ahead on next week’s readings.

Since I am already planning ahead, I have a fantasy baseball draft next Monday and I can’t stop mulling over who to pick first: Nomar Garciaparra or Jeff Kent. I know what you’re thinking: you can’t go wrong with either! Alas, my good friend, you are correct but that does not help alleviate my dilemma. It is obvious that the Los Angeles Dodgers will win the National League West in dominating fashion. The quandary is whether or not they’ll sweep the Mets in all three series of the season or just win a majority of the games (note to irate Mets fans: The Sun’s new EIC is a Dodgers fan so letters are probably futile). Regardless of this minutia, this is the year for LA. Even though I have that in my AIM profile every year, I swear, this is it. Our pitching was bolstered with a Cy Young winner and we added a superfluous leadoff man to an already small ball, power-depleted lineup. Who can challenge that? If we ever get behind more than two runs, beware the bunt! (And maybe a stolen base). After more consideration I decide to forego Nomar and Kent and go with a much more safe, prodigal and injury free pick: Luis Gonzalez.

As I contemplate my draft order I realize my frappuchino is running low. I consider leaving my perch in the A.D. White library (I’ve changed locations) but I fear my highly coveted third floor “penthouse” seat will be instantly scavenged by one of 15 vultures (read: engineering/pre-med students) who have no respect for my books and jacket holding my spot. I find myself wondering what my insouciant friend J.D. Drew would do. You know J.D., the guy who always gives it his all, plays baseball with such enthusiasm that you would not be able to tell by his reaction whether he struck out looking or hit a game-winning home run in the World Series. I’m sure we all know someone like that; but instead of that apathetic someone making over $50 million to play a child’s game, he is sitting unemployed and on welfare at home.

While I’m dwelling on individuals that aggravate me, I might as well get this monkey off my back. Gary and Cristobal (my roommates), I am unhappy with you. One of you, who will go unnamed — Gary — finished the sprinkles I put on my sundaes. I’ve been implementing the ostrich defense and sticking my head in the sand for too long now, so I need to call you out. Though I melt when you perform multiple peerless recitations of Vanessa Carlton’s “White Houses” on the piano, your virtuoso talents will not eclipse punishment. Just get a new container by the time I get home and we’re cool. Otherwise that pink bunny you sleep with will be replaced with a ransom note; and if you push me to these extreme measures the ransom will be much more harsh than my original demand (read: ransom will be two, maybe *gasp* three, sprinkles containers).

It is in thinking about sprinkles that leads me back to considering the effects of Diazinon on the cellular regeneration of Lumbriculus variegatus. Why I am reminiscing of my eighth grade science project I have no idea but I suppose this is as good a way as any to delve back into work. Just three tests and four papers to go.

Carl Menzel is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. He can be contacted at cdm38@cornell.edu. Southern Style appears alternate Wednesdays.