Lara was what my mom called, “in need of a hug from Jesus.” My Type A football player of a brother called her “deranged,” but I knew he secretly wanted to get in her Jncos. If life was directed by John Hughes, she would have sat in the back left corner of the bus, burning lighter marks into her wrist and trying desperately to disappear behind her thigh-high military boots until high school passed. But every day she sat in the front next to my crew of kiddie-pop singing 8th graders. And every day, I wondered how she stayed so pale in the summer, if she used eyeliner or black acrylic paint, how much it hurt to push those safety pins through the extraneous skin of her fingers, and how the hell I could become her.

Ah, the first week of my last year at Cornell. Let’s spend it conspicuously uncomfortable in places I don’t belong. For starters, let’s become one with nature and the abundance of bathing-suit-slippage at the gorges; then we can develop an inappropriate fascination with the 70-year-old man who plays the water glasses at the Ithaca Farmer’s Market; and let’s top it off by crashing my first ever sorority/fraternity open bar tab at that illustrious, elegant establishment, Dino’s.

In preparation for my first mixer, I did an Olympic-worthy running jump into my skinniest pair of skinny jeans and shimmied my way into an offensively sparkly halter-top from freshman year … of high school. Admittedly, my sex appeal peaked early. I was camouflaged. I was ready.

During my childhood, I was lucky enough to watch one of the most beautiful relationships unfold before my eyes. It filled me with such hope that perhaps I, too, could find love in kindergarten with the boy next door: a true love that would last through the trials of puberty and eventually lead to a wonderful marriage. I spent many silent dinners with my parents in awe of the tried-and-true relationship before me. Every day, I thank God and basic cable for introducing me and my generation to the unflinching devotion of history’s most passionate lovers: Corey and Topanga.

Call me Jared Leto, but I despise spring. It’s partially because joy is spreading faster than Hanna Montana fever, and whenever I see an architecture student smile, I know there’s an English major out there crying just to maintain a cosmic balance. To a certain degree, it’s because Ithaca’s spring is a seasonal skort; look, spring, skorts are a creepy and confusing blurring of categorical boundaries. Don’t be a skort — I don’t appreciate getting a sunburn whilst freezing my ass off. But mostly it’s because spring just isn’t summer, and, if From Justin to Kelly taught me anything, it’s that there’s oh, so much awkwardlicious fun to be had in the summer sun.

Syphilis is kind of funny. And the fact that Cornell had to distribute a mass e-mail painting a bare-bones picture of the recent syph outbreak is downright hysterical (alas, if only we could “Reply All”). But the real gem is the simultaneity of the syph outbreak and the rise of bizarre Collegetown Creeper-esque crime. Correlated? Sure. Cause-ated? God, I hope so.

In honor of the week after spring break, I've compiled a travel guide through the sun-burned skulls of some of my favorite post-vaca characters.

1. The Facebook Pornstar

Her tell: More Facebook albums than tan lines.

Her tagline: "Discretion? Oooh, sounds like a brand of vodka."

The Facebook Pornstar lives by a strict code: 1) detagging is for ugly pictures only, and 2) the wetter the wifebeater, the better the profile picture.

The first boy I ever kissed was a catch. No, seriously. I caught him. Fool tried to escape through the woods in my backyard. Come on, really? If you’re being pursued by Jaws, you wouldn’t pencil dive into the water. Similarly, if you’re being pursued by a nine year-old female version of Survivorman, you should probably avoid the wooded regions. I was an easy 5’6” and my direction changes had yet to be weighed down by puberty-induced lady-mounds. Mark, a whopping 4’9” pile of marshmallow weighing in at a buck ten, didn’t even challenge me.

At the ripe age of nine, I had already been taught the fundamental code of the cavewoman: we Amazons had to be a little more proactive in the capture and detainment of our clutch-sized carry-on boy-toys.

“The first couple years of college are just an extension of freshmen orientation week. You’re bombarded and thrilled with the plethora and availability of beer; Natty Ice is staring you down at frat parties with open legs and a come hither look, completely free with no strings attached. Busch is one fake ID and some sweet-talking away from packing your fridge. And after you got about six in you, even Pabst starts tasting good. Sure, the last time you really enjoyed being drunk — and didn't wake up with a hangover and a three-hour date with the confessional booth — was with Dogfish. But it's 10 bucks for a six. Natty will do; you’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.

“So, I guess I’ll see you around?”

No … you um, you just broke up with me. And I wasn’t even sure we were actually dating. I felt like P. Diddy getting voted out of the band. Hold the phone — wasn’t I the one running this show?

I snapped my cell shut, more shocked, confuse and disappointed than the first time I found out the guy who sang “Never Gonna Give You Up” was a pasty, redheaded teenager. I just got dumped for the first time ever, and I had no idea how to respond. How was I supposed to deal with this? Think Shannan, what would Streetfighter do?

“You must be a model or something.” I was wearing a jersey, shorts past my knees, sandals and socks. I looked down at my half-devoured chicken hoagie. Look, I’m not exactly perceptive — up until the night of my parents’ wedding reception, I had been under the distinct impression that my stepdad was black. He’s Polish. But I realized that this stranger’s powers of perception rivaled my own.

I turned around to be face-to-chest with a 5’7” coke fiend with an obvious case of the jitters. I would’ve thought he was joking, but the unguarded lust in his one steady eye told me this man was sincere. Like most of the lady-kind, I know that genuine compliments are as rare as leftovers at WeightWatchers, so I decided to fan the fire.