I remember my senior year of college, which should be no surprise, since it ended less than 12 months ago. What made it so transcendent, so strange, so unique was the permanent feeling of “lastness,” of constantly wishing a fond farewell to a friend.

I write esoterically because I’m a college graduate now and wisdom is expected of me. What I mean — which every senior (and even some especially precocious underclasswomen) can confirm — is that everything will become your “last” at Cornell. Your last CoursEnroll. Your last trip to the Pyramid Mall, which I understand has been renamed. Your last greasy meal at Manos. Your last hookup with a teenager (hopefully). Your last night at the Palms. And so on.

With the exception, traditionally, of Slope Day. Throughout my four years at Cornell and, I’m led to believe, well before I even stepped foot on that grassy knoll Cornellians call the Slope, alumni streamed back to Ithaca for the first Friday of May. Some, no doubt, wanted to drink themselves into a silly stupor. But for most alumni, Slope Day was a rare chance to connect not only with friends, but with Cornell itself.

I see my Cornell friends frequently. We visit the same bars, go to the same parties, and strike out with the same girls. Even friends of mine who are spread around the world — from Iowa to Qatar — stay in touch. No matter how much we giggle and pillowfight, though, a key common denominator of our friendships — our time at Cornell — can never be recreated. What Slope Day offers us, therefore, is a chance to pretend that we’re back. Absurd as it may seem, this weekend of fantasy is profoundly meaningful to many alumni.

The University realizes that many alumni have been looking forward to a glorious Slope Day return for a year, or two, or three, or more. The University also realizes that alumni, by flashing student IDs we’ve kept as souvenirs of better times, can get into Slope Day free of charge. This is problematic for the University—who knows how many rambunctious and renegade alumni are sneaking in under the cover of fake student status? Therefore, the University has decreed, in 2008 it shall scan every Cornell ID shown. Are you an alum who wants to get into Slope Day? That’ll be thirty bucks, please. Gordon Gekko would be proud.

The most outrageous part of this is that the Slope Day act isn’t even good. Perhaps I could convince myself to give up my birthright if Kanye, or Snoop, or even Ben Folds was playing. But Gym Class Heroes? Thirty dollars? That’s dumber than Eliot Spitzer. (Too soon?)

I’m sure Cornell has dozens of prepared excuses for why it needs my $30. It’s an expensive campus to run, what with the rising prices of diversity arches and ice cream. What better way to fund free condoms for all than to squeeze $30 out of miserable, bottom of the corporate ladder 22-year-olds who want to relive their college days one final time?

Beyond this lightly worded protest, though, there’s not too much I can do. I can’t make angry t-shirts. I won’t chain myself to Redbud trees. Hell, I’ll probably even pay the thirty bucks. The Big Red Machine’s vapid, soul-draining attempt to suck the last cents out of my cash-poor pockets will succeed.

My revenge will have to be more subtle. Every year, when I write my check to Cornell (Cornell even asks for money to stay on their listserve so they can ask for money), I’ll deduct $30 from my intended donation. I’ll do this until I’m not angry anymore. I urge all my fellow alumni to do the same.

Justin Weitz ’07 is a former Sun columnist. He can be contacted at justindweitz@gmail.com. Send your Guest Room submissions of 750-850 words to opinion@cornellsun.com