Meet us halfway and submit a caption for this week’s cartoon! The Sun staff will vote and the winning caption — along with the winner’s name — will appear in the Monday, March 11 edition of the paper. The deadline for submission is 5:00 p.m. on Sunday, March 10. Drawn by Alicia Wang ’21
Okay, I’m going to assume you’re behind on your work. Way behind. Whether it’s your desire to succeed or your fear of failure driving you forward, you’re going to need some tunes to listen to while you study. Here are some recommendations from Sunspots and friends.
“One day, I just went through Spotify’s chill/study genre and copied like 20 playlists worth of music from there.
As overachieving, hyper-competitive Cornellians, cultivating balance in our lives usually doesn’t make it to the top of our priority lists. Acing an organic chemistry prelim, for example, is usually associated with pulling a string of all-nighters rather than sleeping restfully or grabbing a great bite to eat with friends the night before. I’d like to dedicate this article to challenging the notion that balance gets in the way of professional success. On the contrary, I believe that a vibrant social life, self-care routine, and emphasis on both mental and physical health can lend itself to even better performance, and more importantly, to happiness.
Cornell and President Rawlings are wrong. There is really no other way to say it. Last week, President Rawlings sent an email letter out to all of campus, which forcefully attacked the concept of a graduate student union at Cornell. I think the content and spirit of this letter were not only intellectually dishonest, but obviously supported anti-union propaganda. I say this only because the language of this letter is very similar to language used by companies against union campaigns for workers.
For some time now, it has been a habit of mine — much like how a frequent cocaine user would call his addiction a “habit”, to take my coffee black. Sans crème, sans sucre — a straight, untampered and unholy noir. I’m not sure how this came to be, the exact progression (or descent) to my black coffee drinking preference, but it certainly wasn’t always this way. Freshman year, I could barely stomach a sip of such vile brew until an ungodly dosage of cream and sugar was applied. Yet sometime in between the now and then, a coffee dependency took hold, and I weaned myself off any and all unnecessary additives to become the calloused coffee drinker I am today.
Like every other college, Cornell has tests. But, unlike every other college, we don’t call these tests “tests” — we call them “prelims.” Why, you may ask? Well, why is equestrian an Olympic sport? Some things we’ll just never know the answers to. Anyway, you will likely want to listen to music while you study for these prelims, and since I find music with lyrics distracting while I’m trying to read and memorize notes, movie scores are the way to go.
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.
I was in New York City for the sole purpose of visiting some indie second-hand bookstores so I could get some best deal in town to justify spending a hundred dollars traveling here from Ithaca. I got a tote that says “If you go home with somebody & they don’t have books, don’t f**k ‘em” and loaded it with as many books as it would fit. L let out a loud breath and asked if I wanted a photo of myself since I looked ridiculous with all these books and I probably would want this on my Instagram; hence I handed over my brand new camera and smiled hysterically at the ground to follow the rubrics of a candid photo—I also defended that I was currently on a spiritual journey of searching for inspirations. L proposed that inspirations would come through if we could go eat sashimi right now. The sashimi were aligned according to their color schemes and the mystical glow diffused by their texture had transformed them into iridescent exotic gems. L started explaining which ones are so highly regarded in Japan that they used to be served only to the royals, and which ones have to be prepared at a certain temperature to preserve texture—perfectly-pronounced Japanese words and gastronomic terms flowed from his lips.