My life has been a downward spiral of record-breaking growth spurts and allergic reactions, extra credit English assignments and Fiddler on the Roof performances, Girls Scout Camps and that whole bratwurst lawsuit.

The truth is, I’m not, nor will I ever be, one of them. You’ve seen them: They stand alone, lost in thought in front of an obscure work of Dadaism at the Johnson, listening to Bright Eyes, Jay Z and Billie Holiday on their Product (Red) limited edition iPods. When they pick up their phones and say, “What up playa?” they're talking to their dads. They are the innately cool, the unequivocally rad.

And I don’t mean the cultish Kool Aid gulping “in crowd” or the anti-smoking Timmy-thought-cigarettes-were-cool-now-Timmy’s-dead badass. I’m talking about the ones you know for two minutes and blurt out, “Please be my best friend!” They are the confident originals who somehow make everyone around them just a little more fly.

You’d think a lifelong study of such specimens would lead to some sort of “cool” formula that you could duplicate. But, after 148 episodes of The Fresh Prince and a thorough analysis of “candid” [read: illegal] surveillance videos of TXA majors, I can safely promise you that it does not.

The reason is simple: They are all completely different. Some are funny and some are quiet, some are brilliant and some cite VH1’s I Love The 80s in their Sociology papers.

So what do they have in common? How can you become cool? Well, I’ll tell you. You can’t.

The people that are cool were born that way. Think predestination mixed with James Dean. One day, God was like “I feel like makin’ someone rad today,” and BAM! Out pops Jimmy Dean rockin a leather jacket and chainsmoking Blacks. (Little known fact: God is Emeril.)

My point is an obvious, yet often overlooked reality: God likes cool people better. He made them that way, so when they die, He can hang out with them. Think of St. Peter as Steve Rubell, God as Ian Schrager and Heaven as Studio 54, without that whole ecstasy-induced-dance-floor-orgy thing … [fingers crossed.]

At this point, you’re wondering, “How can I discover how cool I am? Will I be allowed to cross that velvet rope into Club Heaven?” Well, you’re in luck: A team of highly skilled scientists and philosophers has recently created this 97 percent accurate list of what God thinks is cool. And now, for the salvation of your souls, I give you the “Calcoolator.”

Add 17 points for every tattoo, eight for every piercing and four for every black and white poster of a Hollywood classic in your room. Can you do the worm? Add 10. Do you do the worm publicly? Subtract 22. If your ring tone is a classic old-school jam or makes people think you carry a gun, add six. For every townie friend you have, add 13. If you are a townie student, subtract 15. If you’ve ever rocked a fanny pack in public with pride, add 13.

If you were not surprised that I consider the previous action cool, subtract 22. Do you own a rolling backpack for aesthetic purposes only? Add 28. Subtract two for every flyer you’ve handed out on Ho Plaza, and 12 for every party you’ve attended because of a flyer. Who won your family Beirut tournament? “What family Beirut tournament?” Subtract 10. You? Add seven. Your wheelchair-ridden grandmother? Add 80. (Cool points are inheritable.)

Read this sentence aloud: “Ayo shorty, holler at me for sure.” Depending on how you read this, add or subtract 18. I’ll leave the distribution up to you or the nearest member of the opposite sex.

Look at your feet. Uggs, Birkenstocks, socks and sandals? Subtract nine. Vans, Converse, New Balance, Nike? Add nine. Alligator skin, plaid, LA Gear light ups, or clear? Add 25.

Is your best friend your mom? Add 10. My mom? Add 20. Are you my mom? Add 300. (Please love me.) One ring to rule them all, one ring to bind them. Notice an error? Subtract 40. Are you in Trillium? Add seven. Okenshields? Subtract nine.

If you are an engineer, architect, or pre-med, these instructions are specifically for you: If your social life extends beyond that of the library late night staff, add 20 … good for you! But for every time you complain about your major to someone who likes theirs, put $10 in a little box. After you have bought your third summer home in St. Barts, send that box to that person you complained to. We will need it much more than you.

If you are actually computing this, subtract 50.

Now those of you who are less concerned with the eternal condition of your soul may ask, what does my cool number mean to me right now? Well, heathen, look around you. Are any of your so-called “friends” further then 20 points away from you? Stop talking to them immediately, cool points are lost or gained by association.

Personally, I figure I earn points based on my witty Facebook repertoire, my ability to ride adult rides since I was seven and the fact that I was in a band. I lose points based on overactive salivary glands, my Lucky-Charms-esque Irish appearance, my ability to ride adult rides since I was seven and the fact that my band was a three person kiddie-pop singing a capella group named Opposites Attract.

See you in Hell.

Shannan Scarselletta is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at sms254@cornell.edu. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Wednesdays.