I hated beer, my jeans were too loose and I was scared of dancing in public. It’s hard to remember much else from four years ago because so much in my life has changed (e.g., I would now kill to be able to fit into those jeans). I arrived at Cornell with the self-image of a true high school nerd. I had been to band camp, five consecutive math fairs and every midnight Star Wars premier. Left to my own devices, I probably would have spent my freshman year hiding in my dorm room with my stuffed animals, leaving only for classes and my a cappella group’s rehearsals. Thankfully, two things saved me from this disturbing fate: a preference for really geeky guys shocked by the prospect of a girl noticing them let alone hooking up with them, and my incredible roommate.

No, I’m not writing this because I’m going through some major all-consuming breakup. It’s just that after years of writing columns about dating and relationships, I’ve realized something. Despite all of my dating and relationship experience, and all that I have learned from it, I really don’t know all that much. I still find myself surprised and confronted by new problems and experiences all the time. And, as long as I’m being honest, the relationships I see on The Hills still seem kind of realistic to me, so I know I’ve definitely got some more learning to do on the relationship front. However, while I have yet to uncover the key to romantic bliss, my experience hasn’t been a total waste.

What the F? I’m gone for spring break for five days and Facebook is completely different? Just in case I wasn’t already having enough trouble keeping track of people’s birthdays, it goes ahead and moves the few buttons left that I knew how to use without even giving me fair warning. It took me a good 20 minutes of stalking to figure out that people were updating their Facebook statuses rather than writing all over their own walls. It would be one thing if these changes had some useful function for me — like if they were to add a “Remove Unsightly Pimple in Default Pic” button — that’s something I could understand. But, with these seemingly arbitrary and certainly confusing changes, I can’t help but wonder: Why, Mark Zuckerberg? Why?

My name is not Nikki Nussbaum. Well, actually it is. But I'm definitely starting to gain a new appreciation for the conflicts in the lives of Clark Kent and Peter Parker.

I am beginning to notice some significant changes in the graduating class of Cornell, which can only mean one of two things: either there is an epidemic of Multiple Personality Disorder going around, or we have all developed secret alter-egos. I’m guessing the latter because: A) What are the odds of us all developing a non-contagious psychological disorder at the same time? Clearly less than that of us all becoming superheroes at once; and B) The different identities seem to always come out at the same time, which must mean that it’s the best time to fight crime, obviously.

This past week, every guy I know watched the Super Bowl ... and every girl I know watched He’s Just Not That Into You. Sure, plenty of girls will wait until this weekend to see it. But, for most of the girls I know, seeing a movie like that on Valentine’s Day without the requisite box of tissues, pint of Ben and Jerry’s and frumpy I’m-feeling-sorry-for-myself-pajamas is not an appealing option. The ghosts of Valentine’s past have left us with enough sense not to spend our Valentine’s Days watching women who look like Scarlett Johansson and Jennifer Aniston struggle to get guys to love them.

I’ve been finding the approaching date of my graduation infinitely more tolerable thanks to the upcoming matriculation of my younger sister. Having applied early and been accepted to Cornell, she is, needless to say, pretty excited about coming here. Her excitement pales in comparison to mine as I think about the prospect of vicariously living my college days over again. Every time I talk to her, all of the skepticism and bitterness I’ve acquired from four years of writing 15-page papers and nearly getting frostbite seems to melt away, leaving nothing but unbridled enthusiasm along with the kind of Cornell spirit that can only be represented with a large foam finger.

It makes absolutely no difference to me whether any of you decides to join a house this year or not. Frankly, in a sorority or not in a sorority, to me you are all just “young.” It does concern me, however, that a record low number of women at Cornell have registered to rush this year. This is probably because fewer girls than ever before are interested in joining sororities, which would be totally cool with me if I felt that they’d come to this decision after learning all of the necessary information to form an educated opinion about involvement in Greek life. Of course, I don’t think so, as I firmly believe that every girl on this campus should go through Rush (whether they are planning on joining a sorority or not).

In his undeniably inspirational speech after winning the race for the White House Tuesday night, Obama referred to us as “the young people who rejected the myth of their generation’s apathy.” At this, I, like every other member of Generation Y watching, felt a surge of pride at having voted and actively participated in what was one of most important elections in our nation’s history — excluding the annual votes for American Idol, of course. After the initial victory-speech-buzz wore off, however, I realized that my generation may not be as actively involved in the political process as Obama’s uplifting remarks suggested.

As a senior, I’ve been finding it difficult to escape the feeling that every time I do something it’s “the last time I do it.” It was the last o-week, the last homecoming, and now, it’s the last night we can get away with wearing lingerie as outerwear. The pressure’s on to make every second count, to have the most fun we’ve ever had and to make this last Halloween the best Halloween. So, as my roommates and I discussed our costume plans on our way to Tasti-D-Lite, I wasn’t surprised that all of us seemed to be trying extra hard to come up with something as cool as our fro-yo. Despite our efforts, though, it seemed that idea after idea was being rejected on the basis of creativity, originality and, of course, the requisite slut factor.

Over the past few months, I had a boyfriend who challenged me, made me think, and never even noticed when I was having a bad hair day. Yes, the LSAT and I had gotten really close, and it seemed we were spending more and more time together. But, alas, our relationship came to an end this weekend after an exhausting and emotional three-hour breakup. In its last few moments, as I filled in the final bubble on my answer sheet, I felt a knot in my chest untangle, and a great exhale unexpectedly escape my lungs. Though I may have technically been breathing for the past few months, apparently I had unknowingly been holding my breath, which, come to think of it, would explain the recent change of my cheeks from their normal color to a curious shade of blue.