Where is the love, Cornell? No, seriously. While (despite popular belief) there do exist some happy and highly functional couples around here, I think it is safe to assume that this number will dwindle as summer (and graduation) rapidly approach. It’s really no wonder, either; everyone hates you anyway, you happy couples, you. (Sorry, just stating the obvious.) So, when did Lucy and Ricky transfer? Did Sonny and Cher drop out? Regardless, we’ve severely mucked up our love lives and are approaching the point of no return. Dylan would agree that the times, they are a-changin’, and love better watch its back.

Truth be told, we students are increasingly incapable of maintaining normal, healthy relationships. We have completely forgotten about the Golden Rule, instead, merely groping around for the next piece of ass we can get our hands on. We’ve disregarded custom, spit on chivalry and slammed the door in the face of love. We hook up, we ditch and then we get drunk to drown our sorrows … all the while looking to get laid. Is there any hope for us — single, deprived, self-deprecating us? There’s always graduation.

There was a time when paternal permission stood in the way of taking a girl on a date, when opening doors was customary and when footing the bill wasn’t nearly so political. Back then, we knew each other personally before we knew each other physically — and always called the next day. And as for today?

Well, we go out in hopes of meeting Mr. or Ms. Right-for-Tonight. We pray to get the invite to a very exclusive afterhours, leave mid-morning (lest we face the awkwardness that is The Morning After), then grapple with ourselves over text-messaging/friending/greeting our new friend in person the next day. We get drunk because we’re powerless without our liquid courage, while the hypothetical “happy couples” sit at home together, refusing to waste their energy on dressing up and going out. But does our strategy actually work?

To name a few repercussions, this line of attack typically results in drama, heartbreak and ungratified arousal. And, thanks to the effort spent decoding drunken messages, love taps and suggestive dancing, we rarely know what our romantic other even wants.

If we like someone, we’ll pretend that we don’t; if we don’t we’ll hook up with ‘em to prove we can. Why do we still play games with the opposite sex? Still “forget” his name the next day and BBM him “by accident”? Run from relationships and opt for casual sex at the risk of a variety of infections? Rather than growing up after high school, we seem to have regressed back to a maturity level not far from that of our gangly, brace-wearing, prepubescent years.

Here’s one problem I see: like New York City, the sheer size of Cornell’s student body breeds anonymity. We are set in our social scenes and circles, but hopelessly looking for something new. While college is supposed to be about branching out and taking chances, I get the feeling that most of us are pretty happy sitting on our cliquey behinds. Are we stupid or just crazy? Until we stop making out with our friends’ boyfriends and our boyfriends’ friends, we’re simply not going to find The One.

Apropos of this mystical creature (The One), I bring up the ridiculous notion that our parents have attempted to instill within us: that we’re supposed to find him here … as in, at Cornell. Say what, Ma? Who even dates anymore? Besides that annoying couple that doodles on each other’s notebooks during class and holds hands on line at Terrace, I don’t look around and see a hell of a lot of couples making it to their silver anniversary.

Am I to believe that the guy I’ve danced on tables with at Johnny O’s will father my children? Please, Lord, anything but that. And as for that statistic we heard on the Cornell Days tour — that 150% of Cornell students find their spouses during their undergraduate years here? Bullshit, Ezra, quit pulling my leg.

While things may be looking bleak for love at Cornell, there’s no denying that we’re having fun in the meantime. Though we are almost entirely incapable of sustaining fulfilling, monogamous relationships, our ridiculous exploits and childish shenanigans will at least make for some good stories to tell the grandkids.

Maybe we should go looking in different places, or maybe we should just say “screw it” and put off growing up until Cornell tosses us into reality. If you’re reading right now, future husband of mine, feel free to give me a call. If not, I’ll see you in the real world.