On New Year’s Eve I got all dressed up and headed to my friend’s white trash palace in a subdivision 15 minutes away from my house. I arrived to three drunk girls ready to “party hard and do some E!” Although they weren’t my typical group of friends, I blended in well being the social butterfly that I am. We talked about rap music and movies for about an hour until I started to get bored — probably at the point when the conversation shifted to a serious discussion about getting friend tattoos based on the cinematic masterpiece, Twilight. It was around this time that my hometown GBFF (Gay Best Friend Forever) Johan arrived at the party with his college GBFF, a spicy latino emo boy named Tristan.

As I look around campus, I’m horrified at the bevy of the fat asses parading around as if they don’t even care that Spring Break is right around the corner. What’s worse is that the fatties are mostly men. Because I care so deeply about the state of the male Cornell student body, I have compiled a little how-to for pursuing what myself and countless other gays have termed “Manorexia.”

Let’s face it guys, no matter how much you weigh, there’s a little nervosa in all of us. It’s purely logical, boys: eating food leads to getting fat; ergo, not eating food leads to getting not fat.

In light of the recent Facebook phenomenon, whereby people list 25 “interesting” tidbits about themselves and then force 25 of their “friends” to do the same, I’ve copied and pasted mine here.

1. I’m a classically trained bassoonist. In German, the word for bassoon is faggot.

2. Lacy Peterson went to my middle school. Her and Conner are buried in the cemetery across the street from my house. My parents want to be buried there as well.

3. I’m uncircumcised. And every time I have sexual intercourse I worry that it might rip like my little brother’s did. (See my previous column, “Uncut Bonding," Oct. 9, 2008.)

Like the good second semester senior that I am, I picked up and left last Sunday to spend the first three days of classes being a drunken mess in D.C. The atmosphere in D.C. was decidedly positive and infectiously patriotic. After drinking too early on Monday, I spent the afternoon throwing shoes at a blow-up Bush in Dupont Circle, and my gay best friend (GBFF) and I toured some of the bars in town, sampling the various men the city had to offer.

And, yes, I liked it. As you’ll recall, a few months ago I decided to touch my repressive roots and renew my vows with the hetero lifestyle. It hasn’t been easy, but let’s just say it’s been a very exciting ride. I didn’t quite know where to begin, but kissing a girl seemed like the natural first step. This proved harder than I had anticipated — perhaps my skinny jeans and oversized pink Vera Bradley tote turned them off? — and thus I decided to start by styling myself as the virile bachelor in order to fully embrace my new high-testosterone, possibly pussy-chomping lifestyle.

By now we’re all aware that Change has swept the nation, but more importantly the last few weeks have brought great change in my life. I’m fully prepared to acknowledge the historic quality of the election, but I bombed my LSAT, I’m getting a job, and I’m moving to New York for a few years. America elected a black liberal president, and I lost my right to get married in my home state of California. I don’t know what is wreaking more havoc on my inner thighs — the LSAT or Prop 8. I’m not going to law school next year, and I’m not getting married. To be fair, I don’t have a promising candidate for husband at the moment, but I’d at least like to maintain the option of getting drunk in L.A. and marrying a call boy.

I had just arrived in Port Authority when I got a phone call from my brother. It was loud in the terminal, so I could barely hear him. “Hey,” he said in his monotonous bro-tone. “What’s up?” “Nothin’ much,” he said, “What are you doing?” I told him that I had just stepped off in New York. Then, as I was opening the doors to 42nd Street, I heard him say “John-David, I had sex last night.” I shuddered at the thought, so I asked him to repeat it once I got onto the sidewalk just to make sure. He exclaimed, “I GOT LAID LAST NIGHT!” Paul and I don’t have the closest brotherly relationship, so I was surprised that he called to inform me of this. I assumed that it was his first time and that he wanted a little pat on the back so I said, “Oh gosh Paul.

That’s right, I am happy to announce that I will be turning in my alternative lifestyle for something more mainstream: heterosexuality. After spending two long years out of the closet, I have decided to go back to being straight. Transitioning to my original state of nature isn’t going to be easy, and there are definitely things that I will miss about these fabulous two years, but being gay is simply not doing it for me.

I know that you still cry sometimes about that fact that you weren’t good enough for Yale or Harvard, but face it: you don’t go to a real Ivy. The sooner you start taking advantage of your state school benefits, the better.

Claims that Cornell is the worst Ivy — or that it shouldn’t be an Ivy at all — are both valid and deeply seated in reality. According to Radar Magazine (and numerous other sources), we are “overrated” and “anti-intellectual,” have the ugliest girls and boast an oppressive Greek system. In case you don’t know yet, all of these things are true. We also jump into gorges and stab West Campus visitors. But so what? Cornell is a great university — not in spite of these things, but because of them. Except for the stabbing thing.

This semester I’ve written a lot about my desire to find a hunky wealthy husband who can jumpstart my path to fame and power. So for my last column, I want to give everyone a little advice about some of the things I think we should all try to accomplish this summer to achieve these goals. For those who are graduating, you basically missed your chance — good riddance. But for those who still have a chance to make something of themselves before returning to campus, take good notes.