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What Should Happen in Pirates of the Caribbean 5?

Everyone has their guilty pleasures. I have to admit, Pirates of the Caribbean is one of mine. How can you not love the soundtrack from At World’s End? Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales is just around the corner, and I’m wondering what they’re going to do with it. After internet pirates ironically “pirated” the movie, which is about pirates, I wondered what would possess them to do that.

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HU | Cut the Bullshit Already

I almost quit The Sun two years ago. I was working on a story about Daniel Marshall ’15, who had organized several protests against a $350 health services fee that Cornell sprang on students in spring 2015. That same semester, CUPD began conducting a “criminal investigation” against Daniel and several other student activists; a CUPD investigator questioned Daniel about the protests and, when Daniel declined to answer, threatened him with felony charges. I’m no longer a reporter for The Sun, so, luckily, I don’t have to be “objective” anymore: this is a clear case of CUPD intimidating students in order to silence political protest and punish students for doing it. Yet, as frustrated with Cornell as I was over this, I was even more upset at my editors, who stopped this story from running for several days.

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BLAIR | How to Treat a Sunburn

I originally joined The Sun because I wanted to be like Rory Gilmore. My grades weren’t good enough to get into Yale and I didn’t really think I wanted to be a journalist, but I loved the idea of gracefully racing around the newsroom, shouting commands as we struggled to meet a deadline, so I took what I could get and signed up to be a news writer. Fast forward six months, and I am slumped in front of an oversized iMac, running on two hours of sleep, my hair unwashed and unbrushed, eating pizza for dinner for the fourth time that week, occasionally trading short, awkward exchanges with the other editors, silently combing through the first 19 years of my life to try and pinpoint the horrible mistake that had led me to this moment. The thing is, being a journalist, at least in my limited experience, is 2 percent fast-paced laps around the newsroom and 98 percent staring at a computer screen, blinking furiously to try and keep your eyes from going dry. When you do your job correctly, no one is standing by to congratulate you.

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BANKS | A Mirthful Endeavor, Turned Mellow

For a while, I tried to convince myself that I was low-key enough to be unfazed by the prospect of writing my final column. As it turns out, though, I was delusional — in part thanks to my neurotic obsession with amassing words. After all, the retrospective seemed too ripe, the scope of experience too swollen and the space too meager, for all that I had left to say. I spent several days wondering if I could feign a cool nonchalance towards this whole affair, but I’m finally ready to submit to the truth. Yes, the cold, bitter truth, which quietly resides in this vanishing specter of a columnist — writing from a present predestined to become the past — wails and pleads for freedom from my mind.