Welcome to Cornell Diaries, where we print the anonymous recorded lives of Cornell students. While The Sun maintains the confidentiality of each writer, all facts have been verified and all diaries record the truth.
Monday, May 3rd
3:00 a.m.: When you finish your work at 3:00 a.m, it’s generally a poor decision to start partying to celebrate. But, as a senior starting the last week of his undergraduate career, it’s okay to burn the candle at both ends — if you have any wick left.
9:00 a.m.: Barely four hours of sleep and the sun is angrily pouring through the Venetian blinds, punishing me for another late Sunday night. With the skill of a master necromancer animating a corpse body, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower.
9:05 a.m.: Water streaming down my face and a stomach churning to find so.mething to absorb the alcohol, I remind myself these are the best days of my life.
9:40 a.m.: Coffee, two cups. I sip the first as I check out the Sun online, scanning every article for any mention of the words “Slope” and “Day.”
9:43 a.m.: I pound the second cup as I rush out the door and head through Collegetown.
10:10 a.m.: Sitting in a human resources class in Ives.
10:11 a.m.: Class just started and the kid directly to my right already keeps nodding off. There are 20 people in the class and this kid is falling asleep. Luckily, the professor masterfully pushes on, monotonously opting to continue presenting boring bullet point after boring bullet point.
10:20 a.m.: I’m taking this two-credit class to fulfill some long-forgotten freshman year requirement, so I spend my time thinking more about human nature than human resources — mainly, how does anyone working in H.R. ever find happiness? I wonder …
10:30 a.m.: The answer eludes me as I doodle away.
10:40 a.m.: Still doodling.
11:37 a.m.: Camped out in Libe Café, waving to friends as they file through for their coffee fix. My years at Cornell have made me love the libraries, even to the point where I go there even when I don’t actually have work to do. I know that sounds lame, but its true.
11:38 a.m.: Like a woodland creature reacting the slightest of sounds, I suddenly cock my head to the side, trying as discretly as possible to listen in on the conversation two hipsters are having directly behind me. “This is going to be the WORST. SLOPE. DAY. EVER. Seriously, who the fuck voted for Drake?”
11:39 a.m.: Me, that’s who. Complaining about the Slope Day headliners is number 126 (on the infamous Big Red Ambition list of 161 things to do before graduating) and it seems like everyone’s managed to check that bad boy off. Torn between educating these dissident intellectuals about selections and letting them continue on in their own blissful ignorance, happily bashing something they don’t understand, I opt for the latter. Pick your battles.
11:42 a.m.: Trashing my entire year’s work with the littlest of regard, I leave Libe Café feeling like a fat girl at the most chauvinistic frat party, barreling away as cruel, half-audible insults fly around me.
12:15 p.m.: More chatter. A few mentions more mentions of Slope Day this, why not Lady Gaga that.
12:25 p.m.: Lunch at the Ivy Room. I prefer sitting in the Pizza Palace sitting area, solely for the reason that it’s called the Pizza Palace. Sometimes it’s the simple things in life. C’mon, a pizza palace. I think that was also suggested as a legitimate SlopeFest idea.
1:00 p.m.: I head to Ho Plaza to quarter card for Slope Day guest tickets. A complete quarter carding hypocrite, I usually avoid quartercarders like they’ve got the plague when I’m walking by. Now, I harangue passers-by with a fake enthusiasm like I’m a vaudevillian performer.
4:45 p.m.: Meeting on campus to discuss Slope Day logistics.
5:30 p.m.: Two more meetings. I chose the more pressing one and get flack from the one I miss.
6:15 p.m.: I return to my place in Collegetown, throwing off my backpack and usually launching into a tirade to my floormate about all of the bureaucratic bullshit I endured during the early evening meetings.
6:30 p.m.: Struggle with job search. Convince myself everything will work out. This usually continues until I trick myself into thinking I’ve made some forward progress.
9:00 p.m.: Decide to stop by my frat house for a weekday mixer. Not having really enjoyed a mixer since I was a sophomore, I now go more out of nostalgia. To a senior like me, my frat house is one of the final strongholds of shameless irresponsibility.
9:15 p.m.: The house has Keystone and better beer. After dumbing down my taste for years, I go with the Keystone. Delicious, delicious Keystone. With all of the safety management and alcohol-reduction efforts I’ve been working on, partying has a welcomed ironic tinge to it.
1:47 a.m.: Find the last sober ride to back to Collegetown from the mixer.
1:59 a.m.: Lay down in bed, rinse, repeat.
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