Dear Ryan Adams,

I’m writing you, sir, to request that you send me a signed headshot, preferably from 2005 when your hair was grown out and you wore little black glasses. I have an appointment to be tattooed and am going to get my tattoo of the materials you send me — most likely on my right breast. I hope that’s alright with you.

You see, my enduring love peaked this week after you released Cardinology, which I consider to be not only the best record of the year, but perhaps the crowning musical achievement of the past century.

Thank you,

Sammy

* * *

Dear Reader,

Let me explain my praise and accolades.

Check it: Three girls, one room, two pieces of glitter felt. No do-overs. Leftover week-old weed brownies for the girl who bought her costume the week before. The “Super-Meeeee” super emblem making session was going according to plan, until R burned an iron shaped burn into R’s rug —

R: I don’t know how to explain what happened.

R: Why is your carpet made out of plastic?

– and we were consumed with desire for waffle fries and bacon.

R: WAFFLE FRIES!

We hoped our Super-Meeee costumes would be a vast improvement over last year’s quasi-social-commentarial “Sluts in White Tees” fiasco, which, as you may or may not surmise, consisted only of white tees.

First, I would like to express my excitement for the wonderful month of October. If you aren’t as excited as I am, I’d like to bring up a few things that just might persuade you to share my feelings: Fall Break, Sweater/blazer weather (well at least in New York) and a holiday that might be the most entertaining of the year, Halloween. So to give you a helping hand from a faraway place, let us address these October occurrences and how you can look your best.

Sick lacrosse player 1: Dude this song is sick who’s it by?

Sick lacrosse player 2: Hoobastank, bro.

Sick lacrosse player 1: Nice man, we should put this on the warm up, it’s getting me pumped up.

Sick lacrosse player 2: Yea I know. It makes me want to smash my head through a concrete wall.

— Mac’s

Annoyed girl: Get the fucking dick ring off the fucking printer.

— State St.

Frat guy: So what did you end up doing last night?

Obnoxious jock: I blacked out and woke up in Dickson.

— Central Campus

Confused Boy: I contacted my sponsor for that program, and get this: Her favorite TV show is Friends, and she was on the women’s soccer team. So we have a lot in common.

— Becker Dining Hall

At 17, R’s mom bought her her first fake ID so she could go to Vegas on spring break with her friends. A year earlier, another R found herself wandering through the seedy alleys of Chinatown to procure her very own false identification card. Little did they know that years later each R would meet an R much like herself, with whom she would use her trusty ID in good times and bad, until one R’s ID was taken away at Ruloff’s two weeks ago. RIP R’s ID.

Up until that fateful, tragic, soul-crushing night, neither R encountered any challenges in the pursuit of superfuntimes, other than the oft-confusing plight of remembering to pretend to be who our I.D.’s said we were. Interestingly, R’s ID said she was R.

R: Who’s that?

Two Fridays ago I ran into a problem I run into most Fridays around 11 p.m. I had imbibed one too many drinks before leaving the house (during an event some might call a “pre-game”). Damn Cornell’s campus for making any destination annoyingly out of reach, because wouldn’t you have known it!, 300 yards out the door, and I I realized I had to use the restroom.