To be frank, we’re surprised we made it to Slope Day,

But now that it’s here we’ve got much to say.

This semester’s been quite the wild ride,

As we embark on a hiatus, we step out with pride.

Budget cuts have been an ominous dark cloud,

Colleges’ funding were limited, from contract to endowed.

We watched as the Physical Sciences Library got the ax,

But what about the Lab of Ornithology? We had to ask.

As the billion dollar endowment continued to shrink,

The trustees sold $250 million in bonds, with just a nod and a wink.

Staff and faculty fret over the thought of their job security,

Questions loomed over Milstein Hall, its funding clouded in obscurity.

With the first direct election of Pres and Vice of the S.A.,

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??

What’s been going on in this column? I have tried to make it a relatively ruthless criticism of everything existing, specifically in our culture. I have tried to get you thinking about how unsexy T-Pain is, how frats are undemocratic and why drinking underage is way better than drinking legally. Quite often, then, oppression, repression and resistance. So it is only fair, if I have ruthlessly critiqued things like my community’s sometimes blind support for Israeli policies, that the column now ruthlessly critique itself.

If I have gone so far as to deconstruct, then this column will now deconstruct itself.

Really, Marvin Gaye’s refrain “what’s going on,” might have been a better title.

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.

Today marks the 100th day of President Barack Obama’s current term in office. News media hype aside, the President’s 100th day is an important milestone for the American public’s perception of the Executive Branch and has served as a definite marker for policymaking decisions since the times of FDR. The actions taken by the president within his first five months are indicative both of his priorities and of his leadership style. Most importantly, however, the 100th day unofficially cements the tone the president wishes to set throughout the remaining three-plus year in office.

This column has been hard to write.

I have been looking forward to having a goodbye column since before I even had a column. My friends are probably tired of hearing about my parting 5,000-word magnum opus that I’ve had in the works since freshman year.

But that’s just how I think.

I began looking forward to my high school reunion before I even graduated. My last year at summer camp, I based my actions on whether I thought they would create a lasting memory. In the words of John Dorian, I’m a “sensi.” I’m an emoter, if you will.

But that’s all been hard for me recently. I’m having trouble not being bitter.

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.

I hated beer, my jeans were too loose and I was scared of dancing in public. It’s hard to remember much else from four years ago because so much in my life has changed (e.g., I would now kill to be able to fit into those jeans). I arrived at Cornell with the self-image of a true high school nerd. I had been to band camp, five consecutive math fairs and every midnight Star Wars premier. Left to my own devices, I probably would have spent my freshman year hiding in my dorm room with my stuffed animals, leaving only for classes and my a cappella group’s rehearsals. Thankfully, two things saved me from this disturbing fate: a preference for really geeky guys shocked by the prospect of a girl noticing them let alone hooking up with them, and my incredible roommate.

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.