The intro to your new addiction

Okay, that’s it.

I think I have thoroughly amused, bemused, and confused readers with the first blog series of Sex and Ivy. A completely serious four-parter? About love? For a woman? Uncharacteristic of me, I admit, but I wanted to open up with a bang (not literal) and dead-on honesty without a hint of self-deprecation tends to have that effect when everyone expects a risque, tongue-in-cheek moi.

But while my fellow Harvardians and Angelenos continue to whisper the L-word behind my back, I’ve moved on to thinking about the S-words — those being sushi, shopping, and sex. Keep yourselves busy debating “Is she or isn’t she?” because I’m ready to unveil what my private blog readers have come to expect — works more in the vein of my oft-compared-to fictional counterpart, Carrie. You know, if she had gone to an Ivy League.

For now at least, we’re done with commentaries that betray my radically liberal leanings and revealing pieces on unrequited sapphic love. With a name like Sex and the Ivy, I’ve got to deliver on the goods. That being, of course, sex. Lest readers cease living vicariously through me, and that would be a shame because my life contains enough scandal for everyone. Sharing is daring.

This is me in thirty seconds:

• Precocious, in a slutty way.
• Addicted to online shopping and swiping V-cards (that is, virginity and Visas alike)
• Born in San Francisco, raised in Los Angeles, living in Boston. A city girl at heart.
• I have daddy issues. As in, he wasn’t there.
• I also have mommy issues. As in, she’s always there.
• Sushi aficionado. I like my fish the way I like my sex: raw.
• On my way to becoming an alcoholic like all the cool kids.
• Incapable of taking care of myself, preferring instead to rely on tall, broad-shouldered men to face life’s demands.
• Former wannabe journalist, current aspiring trophy wife, constant failure of a writer.

Ten pounds from perfect, ten words from published, this is the diary of the often reckless, always shameless Elle C.