This entry will be less party log, more stream-of-consciousness. I am 48 hours removed from a night when I was severely under the influence, so half this stuff I’m probably making up.

Roundup of destinations: Mather, Mt. Auburn, Adams, Quad, Mt. Auburn, Lowell, Mather.

Roundup of events: With Canada as the goal, my blockies and I went everywhere but. And in between, lots of old friends and new ones.

Best Drunken Run-In: Reconnecting with seven or eight Mather boys in the Lowell courtyard after being separated post-pre-game. Everyone was the perfect level of drunk.

Worst Judgment: A toss-up between 1) getting stuck for half an hour on a shuttle to the Canada party that was no more, and 2) smoking without washing my hair immediately after. (Our bathroom smelled suspiciously herbal the next morning.)

New Best Friends: Random HLS students whose alma mater (Yale) I made a face at. “Well, at least you ended up here,” I told the three alums.

Most Awkward Moment: “Hi! Did we sit next to each other in History?” –Me, to someone better identified as a guy I hooked up. (Obviously, this was only awkward to him.)

Most Embarassing Moment: Being checked up on by not one but two blockmates, because I often appear drunker than I actually am.

Hottest Moment: Making out with Sue in the middle of Mass Ave., possibly the best kiss of the evening. Of three. Don’t even ask me how I end up in these situations.

In conclusion, three shots are perfect for my newly lightweight self. And I was, to some extent, successful in my attempts to hook up with the hottest Asian girl in Mather — my blockmate (much to the excitement of yellow fever infected boys like Damon). I am such the sketchy upperclassmen guy.

From Sex and the City:

Charlotte: Is it safe to buy pot from strangers?
Miranda: They’re not strangers, they’re our new friends with pot.

Above quote basically sums up how I’ve met 90% of the guys in Mather. Social interaction at Harvard — gotta love it.

In Filene’s …

Me, holding up my medium-sized find: “Do you have this dress in a small?”
Saleswoman: “That’s the last one. And honey, that ain’t a dress.”

My nails are so hot right now. I finally got a manicure last week (results above), when Terra and I headed to the nearest and cheapest salon in the Square. I’ve been faking it all summer with acrylics — sturdy, long-lasting, and sexy but difficult as hell in terms of upkeep. Not to mention that they rendered me useless for simple tasks like picking up coins, eating with my hands, pressing small buttons, etc. Can you imagine move-in with 1.5-inch nails? (Keep in mind my hands are really small.)

Now I’m back to a shorter, more practical length. The black polish was a great choice. On the spot, Terra offered her kudos for my color selection. “Kiera Knightley wears black nails,” said my British blockmate approvingly. Indeed, she does, according to The Chicago Tribune. And apparently, so does Lindsay Lohan — my favorite Los Angeles car wreck. When I caught up with Rena in the Mather dining hall and saw that she was donning black as well, I knew I had made a trendy move. The girl knows what she’s doing.

24 hours and multiple compliments later, I’ve determined that I am most definitely “with it” as Damon’s fashion forward roommate put it. Now I’m on a mission to snag the limited edition Chanel Black Satin polish that debuted last month. Retailing for $18, the sold-out shade eBays for as much as triple its original price. I’ll be damned if it doesn’t grace my fingertips.

9:00 a.m. - Alarm. Writing for an hour.
10:00 a.m. - Chinese Bx Lecture, Vanserg Hall.
11:00 a.m. - Writing. Fly-by for lunch, Memorial Hall.
12:00 p.m. - Citigroup’s Investment Banking 101, 1414 Mass Ave.
1:00 p.m. - Race in America Lecture, Emerson Hall.
3:00 p.m. - Changing into professional wear. Dorm room, Mather House.
3:30 p.m. - Harvard Square T Station
4:00 p.m. - Interviewing at New Sector Alliance, Downtown Boston.
5:00 p.m. - JP Morgan Recruiting Event, Faculty Club.
6:00 p.m. - WLN Board Meeting, Quincy House.
7:30 p.m. - Dinner Meeting Re: Internship with Startup, Legal Seafoods (The Charles Hotel).
9:00 p.m. - Changing into Pajamas, Mather House.
11:00 p.m. - Getting turned down for sex, the Internet.

I can’t repeat the last 72 hours on a weekly basis and survive. I haven’t even done any reading or homework, and I am already exhausted from running around all day. I am operating on a perpetual deadline, I am constantly late, and I consult my iCal on an hourly basis just to remember where I have to be. Half the time, I’m in heels. The other half, I’m running around the Square barefooted to stay on time.

I have not been without my laptop for more than two hours since Sunday. Dinner consists of munching on hors d’oeuvres during recruiting events. I keep spare pearls in my purse. I am always “on.” That is, I stay presentable, professional, and personable — even if I want to fall over. Boozing and schmoozing is more draining than class.

If my semester works out the way I think it will, I am overseeing production for two major, very large-scale events. I am working two internships (15-20 hours/week total). I am comping two organizations. I am taking five classes (with the intent to drop one or take it pass/fail). Oh, and I’m going to party/meet the love of my life/blog blog blog/sleep … if there’s time.

Now that the seemingly insurmountable first half of the week is over, you’d think that I’d feel less stressed. Not true — I’m too wound up to relax. I keep joking about needing to do a couple lines. And really, it’s stopped being funny. If you’re hawking what I’m craving, I’ll probably take you up on your offer. A ride on the white pony is the next best thing to a man. And hell, I can’t even get sex when I need it most. This must be karmic revenge.

God, Harvard. You’re going to fucking kill me, but damn, it’s good to be home.