Ugh, I feel like shit. Last night was the first time I’ve been drunk in the city and the first time I’ve hooked up with anyone here. I woke up hungover with little recollection of where I’d been. I’ve been so good about my drinking habits lately that a hard night out really feels like a hard night out.

Navigating the subway hungover? Never again. This marks the second time I thought I could die on the train. The first was a couple weeks ago when I suffered an allergic reaction, popped two Benadryl, and nearly fainted before I made it to the doctor’s. It was enough to tranquilize a cow.

Anyhow, I just stuffed myself with a sandwich and roasted corn to calm my tummy. Now I’m starting a two-day juice fast, ending at dinner on Monday. I’ve been meaning to do this for a while and now is a good time since the roomie’s out of town and I don’t have to cook. I really have no desire to eat anyway.

By the way, Happy Pride Weekend, everyone! I wish I knew more gay kids (or queer enthusiasts) in the city. I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head, but I desperately need a pal to go to things like this with me. If I were in school, CK would be a sure thing. Alas, she is currently in Colorado.

See ya at the March tomorrow.

I’m thinking that this is a season for flings and freedom. I have an ex-boyfriend in California I still love, an old hookup I lust for each morning in between states of sleep, and more than one boy in Boston to look forward to come fall. Relationships are too fatiguing for a late-riser.

I want fluff off the tops of cake and nothing filling from the layers beneath. I’ll pass on your keen intellectuals, your marathon conversationalists, your waterside meanderers. I want boys with beautiful skin, firm hands, and knowing eyes. I want words mouthed, not spoken, and I want torsos sinking along with thoughts into my bedroom’s dark crevices. My feet demand a guide across foreign pavement but all my ears need are laughter to follow when the bright lights make the color bleed against my eyelids. I want to linger at the traffic light with fingers in coarse curls and palms against solid shoulder. I want to taste freckles because I’ve never had them. I want to prick my tongue on cayenne and tease out strange men’s names and tell you that mine is Jane. I want you, but just for a day. Or maybe a week, if you are lucky. And then I want your friend. If she is lucky.

But this is not about sex, you see, because I can hold off on satiating the carnal. My lust is precipitated by “wander” and baby, the only burn I feel is my crisp skin beneath the sun. I am holding a one-way ticket to nowhere, with Kennedy on my mind, laptop on my thighs, and next to me, an empty seat.

I mean it this time! My interhouse transfer request for Currier just got approved today so it’s official. No more half-hearted attempts to camp out at CK’s Cabot single, no more sneaking into Currier dining hall. Baby, I’m a Quadling.

It feels like I’m getting into college all over again. I don’t care what all you naive rising sophomores say; I’ve won the housing lottery. This is amazing.

In honor of the occasion, here is a photo of me on the Quad lawn this spring, expressing my obvious glee for my surroundings:

Junior year can’t be anything short of awesome. CurrierWire, watch out.

Since Googling myself is only so much fun, I decided to dig up my own dirt today. Fifteen Minutes, The Harvard Crimson’s weekend magazine, runs a gossip column called “Chatter”. It’s mentioned me on several occasions this year because I am apparently a coke addiction and pubic dye-job away from becoming Harvard’s Lindsay Lohan.

I’m actually elected to the magazine board but don’t contribute regularly to the paper … unless inappropriate sound bytes count. Anyhow, FM is the best part of The Crimson, Chatter is the best part of FM, and Lena-related gossip items are the best part of Chatter (naturally). Links follow, discretion does not (I mean, I don’t think anyone needs help identifying the blurbs about me):

CK: Always with the older men. Why don’t you play with children your own age?

Me: Because Aidan dumped sand on my ice cream cone.

CK: Aidan is just one boy. How many grown men have stomped the fuck out of your sand castle?