I have been given a lot of advice during my tenure at The Sun — oxford commas are sacrilegious, prepositional phrases ought not to be separated in headlines and never head to The Sun without a cup of coffee. After being elected editor in chief, however, one nugget really stuck: Beware of that “what the fuck?” moment that hits you on your first night in the big office at 139 W. State St.

The nervousness! The intrigue! The walking into wrong classrooms! The first day of school is often exciting — the academic world rushing to welcome you in all of its charming geekiness.

But F all that optimistic noise: today also ushers in a whole year of hard work and late nights. Which is why lately I’ve started to think more and more seriously about time travel and astronauts.

I hated beer, my jeans were too loose and I was scared of dancing in public. It’s hard to remember much else from four years ago because so much in my life has changed (e.g., I would now kill to be able to fit into those jeans). I arrived at Cornell with the self-image of a true high school nerd. I had been to band camp, five consecutive math fairs and every midnight Star Wars premier. Left to my own devices, I probably would have spent my freshman year hiding in my dorm room with my stuffed animals, leaving only for classes and my a cappella group’s rehearsals. Thankfully, two things saved me from this disturbing fate: a preference for really geeky guys shocked by the prospect of a girl noticing them let alone hooking up with them, and my incredible roommate.

Law school final exams start a week earlier than the rest of the University’s, so, as you read this, I’m likely either taking my Trusts and Estates exam or furiously preparing for my Federal Courts one. As a result, this column, my last one, is going to be short and sweet.

Graduating Sun columnists’ swan songs generally contain two traditional elements: one relatively mandatory, and one technically frowned upon.

The mandatory tradition: explaining your column’s moniker.

The illicit one: thanking every single person you met during your time on The Hill.

I have had a particularly difficult time writing this, my final article. I wish that I could say that the difficulty is derived from the pressure of capping off two years of fine work, but the truth is that I happen to be brain dead after a night of drinking. I suppose that is not a valid excuse; after all, Hemingway was always drunk and what he managed to produce was halfway decent. As I reflect on the debauchery that was last night and whether this headache was truly worth it, I cannot help but contemplate life after graduation and how different it may be.

When making an important life-altering decision, I like to pretend that all of my options were trapped on a desert island, engaged in a Battle Royale of theoretical proportions. It’s a methodology that has been passed down in the Scarselletta clan for generations; it’s how my sister decided to go blonde, and how my mother chose which children to keep.

Frail, pristine Caitlin Richter, who probably still carries My Little Ponies in her Paul Frank lunchbox, maintained her post as the sole object of my concentrated pre-pubescent scorn until one fateful day in first grade music class. She was whispering so softly into her recorder that she could’ve been inhaling, while I was pounding a triangle against a snare drum with all the aggression of an overworked nanny pushed too far. Suddenly, my classmates stopped playing their instruments and watched in awe as a puddle grew from under her jellies to the edges of my light-ups. Then, with yogi-like tranquility, Caitlin Richter pulled off the type of scapegoat evasion that would inspire the likes of Spitzer:

“It’s too hot in here.”

It came so suddenly. I’ve finally joined the flocks of conflicted Cornellians both relieved and also terrified that the weeks left in our planners have dipped below double digits. But there, in fine print … Oh sweet relief! The Holy Grail of cathartic collegiate experience! Spring Break.

The highly scientific poll of “Where are you going for break?” yields consistent results of Cancun, Ft. Lauderdale — anywhere in the Caribbean or Florida. The classic booze-and-beach recipe that co-eds have been eating up since before MTV. And believe me, I’m not judging — there’s no better time than now. Eat it up. It’s your patriotic duty to gorge yourself on that souvenir. Take one for the team and take that extra shot — stimulate your senses while you stimulate the economy!

When they signed on with the men’s basketball team, the members of the Class of 2009 — Adam Gore, Khaliq Gant, Jason Battle, Conor Mullen and Brian Kreefer — must have been wondering what they were getting themselves into. In 2004-05, the year before their freshman season (except for Gant, who played that year), the Red went 13-14 overall with a respectable 8-6 record in the Ivy League. That team put up respectable, if not impressive, stats; it cruised to a second-place finish in the Ivy League, but did not pose a serious threat to Ancient Eight champion Penn’s 13-1 league record.

“Obviously we’re a lot better now,” said Gore, a team captain for the second year in a row.