We were all in the bathroom when she said it. Each passive-aggressively vying for mirror time as we adjusted our matching neon green beanies and re-applied our Dr. Pepper Lipsmackers.

“Ha ha ha, Shannan … you are so funny! I think that’s why I’m so skinny! You make me laugh so much. Ha ha ha! Do you know laughing burns calories? That’s why I’m SO skinny!”

“What are you doing next year?”

This time of year, many seniors have come to dread that inevitable — and daunting — question.

People have all kinds of plans, and many of us legitimately do not know. Yet amidst all the uncertainty and confusion, nothing came close to what I was about to hear. Without even a twist of her comely, deceptively-innocent brow, she spoke with a voice full of the confidence of four years of liberal arts education and other worldly experience:

“I’d like to do something good for humanity … or make a lot of money.”

Or??

Begin, of course, with hello. In your second or third year of high school — give or take a few based on your level of precociousness / misery — buy that giant book of America’s Best Colleges. Pretend to be looking as closely at average GPA and SAT score as at the campus, dining, party rating or male-female ratio. Somehow, both of these factors never seem to correlate. You will likely learn this all too late.

Try to ignore your parents hovering over your shoulder as you fill out applications on the computer they have just learned how to turn on. Be thankful technology is good for something. Fail to realize parental figures have the canny ability to make you feel their hovering presence from any distance, at any age.

Life is strange. Last week, I participated in one of the most powerful demonstrations I’ve been a part of at Cornell. I found myself crying outside of the Chi Alpha meeting as Chris Donohoe ’09 and Jarrod Schaeffer ’09 stood on the steps of McGraw Hall, addressing the crowd of 200 people after we had stood for 20 minutes in reflective silence. I was there with my mother at my side, acknowledging faces I recognized from all over campus — from first-year fraternity members to Hillel friends to radical gay rights activists — in the physical center of what has been my academic locus at Cornell. It seemed to be almost too suiting of an end to my time here on the Hill.

Law school final exams start a week earlier than the rest of the University’s, so, as you read this, I’m likely either taking my Trusts and Estates exam or furiously preparing for my Federal Courts one. As a result, this column, my last one, is going to be short and sweet.

Graduating Sun columnists’ swan songs generally contain two traditional elements: one relatively mandatory, and one technically frowned upon.

The mandatory tradition: explaining your column’s moniker.

The illicit one: thanking every single person you met during your time on The Hill.

My Sun career comes down to this: 800 words and then I’m finished, done for good. What that means I don’t know, but it does leave some room to be creative. No matter what I've written, there will be no worrying about firing or suspension, no need to take angry calls and no requirement to respond to livid e-mails. There will be no looking back.

I’ll start by noting that the very fact that you’re seeing this column means I’ve moderated a bit. There are many things I would have loved to have written but, if I did, this would be in the trash and instead you’d be taking in some wisdom from the College Exchange. Thus, in the spirit of getting this printed, I’ve forsaken some of that wiggle room.

My first visit to Cornell was a thoroughly annoying experience. However, given that it was a sunny August day, and I was very impressed with the grace of its architecture, it began well enough.

Unfortunately, as I walked into Day Hall for a tour, things began to crumble relatively swiftly. As our miniscule tour group (consisting of a four individuals, including my father and myself) gathered, the bouncy fellow beside me attempted to win my friendship. His first question to me torpedoed his objective in an instant: “So are you, like, a grad student?” I gave him a withering look. While I may dress like I was born in 1953, I’d like to think that I have yet to begin exuding the world-weariness which might accompany a graduate degree.