INOCCIDUOUS THOUGHTS | 35 Things I’ve Noticed About Food on West Campus

Before people get mad, let me just say that I’m extremely grateful to have access to Cornell’s diverse dining options. Some of my friends back home only have one dining hall, so we are lucky to have six on West Campus, alone. Also, I have worked with Cornell Dining before, and the passion, labor, and patience put into running a dining hall is absolutely incredible, so we should all be appreciative of what we have! That said, I just wanted an outlet to express my opinion on Cornell’s food (specifically West Campus in this article). This is not to offend Cornell Dining in any way!

SUNSPOTS | How Would You Spend 300 BRBs in 3 Weeks?

You did it. After countless, grueling months spent slogging uphill (physically, intellectually and emotionally) in sleet and snow, you’ve finally made it to spring—and oh my god that summer internship is so close you can practically taste it. In fact, the only things standing between you and the sweet release of death graduation/commencement are Slope Day, a few pesky finals… oh, and the fat wad of unused Big Red Bucks sitting in your Cornell dining account. Forget finals, what the hell are you going to do about that? Given that this hypothetical scenario isn’t so hypothetical for lots of Cornell students, we asked our writers and our readers to devise their own “meal plans” based on a simple premise:

If you had three weeks to spend $300 in BRB’s, how would you do it?

WHITE KNUCKLES | The Signs You Don’t Read

This is an open letter, one that will never reach the addressee, the type of letter  that mostly benefits the author and maybe open some isolated, outcasted pairs of eyes. One of those that are not meant to be read, but meant to be written and spoken to strangers with familiar faces about familiar situations, one of those often charged with aggressive passivity, when maybe all they do is delineate a relationship between two people where names are not needed, where intimacy is beyond the point and from which no friendship will spring. I start and end with who I am, and in virtue of this identity of subject and writer I sketch the outline of who you are. To begin with, this is where I am from: a multitude of places, but – for the sake of this letter’s focus – from the self-sustaining micro-universe of a crowded dining hall. My face, I know you will not know, but maybe the colors will sound familiar – red speckled with a golden name tag, black over my hair.