White privilege. Despite my pale, freckled, Irish and Swedish skin (trust me, it doesn’t get much paler than this), it’s not something I really think about on a regular basis.

At least until I go home to Massachusetts. My aunt, whose skin is just as pale and freckled as mine, is a professor at Tufts, teaching classes such as “African American History since 1865” and “Class, Race and Gender in the History of U.S. Education.” She dedicated her education and career to learning about the events that have created white privilege (she acknowledges, ironically, that she occupies a position of privilege as a professor at a majority-white university).

So every time I come home, I am reminded — reprimanded, almost — of the white privilege that my life has been steeped in. My family not only acknowledges our white privilege, but constantly points it out to each other so that we do not take our opportunities for granted.

The ego of the average Cornell student rivals that of Robert Mugabe or Napoleon. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Whether it is the obnoxious cell phone conversations on the Arts Quad, the half-sarcastic comments in a North Campus dining hall or just the sheer number of Cornell logos that can be seen on students on any given day, it is clear that the average Cornellian thinks that he is all that and a bag of chips.

Whale tails left and right. Cleavage front and center. Boxer-briefs everywhere I look. These are just three reasons why Cornell should adopt a uniform policy. Or, at the very least, a dress code.

My friend Zoë is always impeccably dressed. Each morning, it is as if she has a stylist put together the most weather-appropriate, perfectly coordinated ensemble, from her carefully selected jewelry right down to her choice of footwear. Often, clad in rain-soaked ballet flats, I can only stare with jealousy at Zoë’s cozy wellies. On days when my hair looks like the before-picture on What Not to Wear, Zoë’s is inevitably pulled back with an flawlessly coordinated headband.

My family is liberal. When I say liberal, I don’t mean they jumped on the Obama bandwagon in ’08. I mean really, really freakin’ liberal.

[Author’s note: I do not smoke — cigarettes or otherwise — nor have I ever. It is disgusting when my hair smells like an ashtray after standing next to people who smoke, and the cigarette butts that litter the entrance of my building are just as nasty. I also do not want to die of lung cancer.]

In this wonderful country of ours, I am guaranteed the right to the pursuit of happiness — and cigarettes make me happy. Given that I am a ripe 21-years-old, I should damn well be able to buy the cigarettes of my choice.

The other day, on one of my rare jaunts through Ho Plaza, a girl was asking people if they were interested in consulting and, to the yea-sayers, handing out quarter-cards. One poor, fellow behind me asked, “What is consulting?” The surprised girl tried to explain what consulting is.

If you’re in the shoes of that fellow, allow me to explain: Consultants are paid to come in and advise companies or municipalities (such as, say, Ithaca) on certain matters to help their client earn more money, or do a better job in some way. Consultants usually have specific areas of expertise (such as, say, urban planning and development). And, given that consultants are paid a lot, their clients usually listen to them. Consultants benefit from giving good advice — and so, good advice they give.