Halloween at Cornell is a pretty terrifying thing. I’m pretty sure that over the course of the weekend, I danced with exactly two naked girls, 16 Lady Gagas and one very drunk, very enormous and very velvet penis.

But it doesn’t take a decked out holiday and copious amounts of alc … candy … to scare me on this campus. In fact, I’ve got a pretty long list of fears that pop up all year round.

Orange Face

OMG girls, let’s hit up the tanning salon today and get totally darque! It’ll be tanfastic! Cue some high-pitched screams and a stiletto stampede.

In case you were unaware, we live in Ithaca, NY. Read: Darkness, grayness, sunshinelessness and other non-words for “Hell on Earth.”

Despite hailing from the Sunshine State, I’m a pretty pale person to begin with, I’ll admit. But here, I switch my “Porcelain” face compact for pure white baby powder, lest I look a little bit streaky.

And yet, there is a large contingent of girls on this campus that refuse to admit they live in a sunless box. This results in a mass of neon orange clown-faces (and I’m talking “The Joker,” not “Bobo”) peeking out from their furry hoods. It’s like Ho gets inundated with a mass of tiny little Cheetos bobbing about in the snow.

The sad part of all of this? I’m pretty sure I saw about 60 Guido costumes this Halloween. When someone’s dressing up as you for the scariest holiday of the year, perhaps it’s time to rethink your beauty regiment just a bit.

A Hot Mess of Tall

So, I was dancing at a ridiculously overcrowded party on the 31st when it felt like I’d finally made it to the wall on the other end of the room. But then, I looked. This wall had an arm. And shoulders. And a head. This wall was a person.

This fear is sort of a love-hate thing. You see, I’m a pretty long 5’ 3/4”. (My doctor told me I could round up.) This means, to the chagrin of all my tall friends, that God has spited me with a love of all men tall. This also means that I’m in for some seriously awkward moments with the lanky among us.

Take, for example, O-Week my freshman year. I’m sure you all remember those touchy feely icebreakers that in no way made you feel more comfortable as a freshman.

One of the icebreakers involved linking arms with a total stranger while standing back to back. (This icebreaker, in retrospect, seems to have had no purpose at all other than allowing you to potentially press butts with the hottest guy you could find.)

Naturally, I ran to a cute guy and offered to link arms with him. Which seems like a reasonable plan, no? Except cute guy was about 6’2”.

This greatly complicates the back-to-back arm linking process. I was forced on my tippy toes, stretching my arms behind me in what was obviously a medieval torture method.

Needless to say, cute guy did not ask me out. Probably because he was forced to crouch down contortionist style in order to make the pose possible.

Not-So-Opaque Leggings

I’ve got to admit that when Vogue decreed pants optional this fall, I ripped off my shorts and bared my leggings proud. You see? You see what I did there? I said bared my leggings. Not my legs.

Every time I walk up a set of stairs behind some girl who thinks she’s fashion-forward, I’m forced to stare at her Victoria Secret underwear that shows through her tights.

Why? Because she hasn’t bothered to put on a shirt that covers her butt and because she, for whatever reason, has decided that her see-through tights are equivalent to leggings. They are not.

I’ve seen girls go so far as to wear a short (read: non-butt-covering) tee shirt with control tights. Hear this: when I can see the seams of your Spanx, you are not wearing leggings. You are wearing damn foolishness.

Spiders

Let me just say this in a very slow, very clear and very mature manner: I FREAKING HATE SPIDERS!

Unfortunately, at Cornell, God has decided to capitalize on my fear and have a little fun.

You see, I’m in a class wherein discussion = grade. So when someone talks, everyone listens, stares and pays attention.

I was finishing my piece, when I noticed my neighbor was staring intently at me. And not intently like he was genuinely interested in what I was saying. I’m talking staring daggers like it was his job.

In the silence before someone answered, he dropped the bomb: “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you this, but there’s a spider in your hair and it’s been there for about 20 minutes.”

Needless to say, I shrieked. Loudly. The class erupted in laughter; he plucked the spider out and let it sit on his pencil; I sat in my chair, red-faced, cursing the day evolution decided eight legs was a good idea.

For me, Halloween or not, our lovely Cornell is stocked to the brim with scary, in all senses of the word. This is a crap conclusion. (Thoughtful endings also scare me.)

Cristina Stiller is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at cstiller@cornellsun.com. Believe You Me appears alternate Mondays this semester.