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.