I remember when I first came here, I tried getting with some girl in Collegetown on the first day of orientation. My attempt failed, naturally, as I was a freshman and she was a grad student. Also, I was wasted from one can of Miller Lite. Our conversation deteriorated to me asking which way leads back to North, and she said something along the lines of, “Up the hill. You always want to go up the hill.”

This just in … it’s time for spring fashion! Seriously though, it’s about darn time we had a few words spoken about fashion here. I mean, the other day I saw this girl wearing a mimosa. A mimosa! Before St. Patrick’s Day! My stars, I could not believe it. Thankfully she wasn’t wearing her letters at the time because golly, that sure would have been embarrassing. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

You know that sexuality survey you took last Spring? The one that was marked confidential? The one nobody was ever supposed to see? Yeah, when they said, “This survey is confidential and anonymous,” there was a footnote that said, “as long as you do not save this file on a public computer.”

Maybe, “Do you ever feel attracted to your friends?” should have been followed up with, “Do you want strangers to know this?”

I am writing this column from beyond the grave. That is to say, I have graduated. Not last May, like most students. Not even in December, like 10 percent of the student body. As with most things I have done here at Cornell, I went a slightly different route. I am probably the only person to have ever graduated at three in the morning, drunk in my underwear. All I had to do was send an e-mail with the faithful words “I quit.”

So, another semester comes to an end. I’ve only got one left now. I feel I had more when I started. Four years, that’s a lot of time. Eight semesters, that sounds like even more. We all throw a couple away. Count your time in pong cups you’ve crushed, it seems like a lot longer. Count it in Govt’ Mule concerts you’ve been to, turns out you’re not here for very long (if at all). Count your time in Ithaca High kids you saw smoking pot at that concert and you’ll think you’re here forever.

Look to your left. Now look to your right. If all three of you are reading this article and just looked at each other, give yourselves high-fives.

Haha. Yeah. Also, three of you will live in a shitty apartment next year. Possibly together.

The Sun’s Public Editor Rob Tricchinelli has written a column for today’s paper (published right above me) about the interactions between the newspaper and our readers (adoring fans, as I like to call you). And I think that is a great idea, so I am going to take the Cornell route, and rip him off. I have absolutely no idea what he is going to write about, but I am just going to give you the straight dope about my interactions with readers.

For example, two weeks ago I wrote a column. A week later, I had something stolen from me. Vandalism or fan-mail? The jury is still out. Literally.

Do you know how expensive beef jerky is at Noyes? It’s not cheap. Actually it’s about $5, the same price as everything else at Noyes. Maybe their price scanner is broken, maybe they just like ripping me off. Either way, when I buy two types of beef jerky and spicy jalapeno chips for $15, it’s a special day for me. When I mix Evan Williams with Wegman’s brand cola, you know I’m gearing up for my special day. When I skip all my classes, it’s probably a day like any other. But it might be my special day.

FACEBOOK. OBAMA. FACEBOOK. OBAMA. OBAMA. ISRAEL. OBAMA FACEBOOKS ISRAEL. ECONOMY. FACEBOOK. ISRAEL. FACEBOOK. OBAMA. OBAMA. ECONOMY TWITTERS OBAMA TO FACEBOOK ISRAEL.

To get the most breaking stories, journalists have often gone places no one else would. Iraq. Iran. Bosnia. Bin-Laden’s hut. Some are not lucky enough to return, and their commitment and sacrifice to the written word is laudable.

Keeping these precedents in mind, I decided to do a little investigative journalism of my own. I risked life, limb and exposure of my IP address (and file share) to bring you the truth. In a way, I am ruining the story for you. Since I am writing this, you know that I came back safely. Yes, that is true. Physically, I am still intact. But I am not the same.