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One More’s a Brothel?

I mumbled "good morning" to my housemate at six a.m. as we crossed paths on the way to the bathroom. She was getting up; I was going to bed. After more than three years of college, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I am genetically predisposed to procrastination. Cornell alums have […]

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I mumbled "good morning" to my housemate at six a.m. as we crossed paths on the way to the bathroom. She was getting up; I was going to bed. After more than three years of college, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I am genetically predisposed to procrastination. Cornell alums have told me that these four years are when you learn about yourself; I now know that it is pointless for me to attempt a paper more than twelve hours before the deadline. My procrastination is not only applicable to writing essays. I have yet to apply to graduate school. However, as I wrote "grad application" in my planner for the tenth consecutive day, I realized that maybe I'm not procrastinating so much as denying the fact that I'm leaving Cornell.

sororitySure I'll miss the classes and the people, but what scares me most is that I will no longer come home to eight other girls. After graduation I will have only one-ninth of the clothes I now have. If my printer breaks, I can no longer e-mail my paper to a friend twenty feet away—and if my heart breaks, my bed will no longer become a pile of girls and chocolate. After three years of living in the same crumbling estate on the corner of Eddy and State streets, we have accumulated a lot of—for need of a printable word—stuff. Our fridge is covered in postcards sent to each other last summer, and the kitchen counter is lined with nine jars of peanut butter. I don't know what it's like to come home without stepping over a mountain of sneakers in the doorway.

In an article about sorority housemothers, the Daily Sun investigated whether there is evidence to support the rumor that ten ladies living under one roof constitutes a brothel under New York State law. The Sun confirmed this to be an urban legend. Still, while two-thirds of us maintain steady distance relationships—and we spend each weekend traveling with the track team rather than prowling Collegetown—the idea of nine girls under one roof still raises some eyebrows. I am not a sentimentalist who will be crying at graduation because I'm no longer a student. To be honest, I'm tired of hearing the word "prelim," let alone studying for them. While I appreciate the opportunity of studying at such an esteemed university, I have to admit that my single greatest fear of leaving campus is the prospect of living alone.

— Aeriel Emig '09

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