I’ve been bedridden and ailing since this weekend, so I’m incredibly behind on schoolwork and freelance assignments. No time to blog — nothing besides summer plans to blog about, anyway — so I dug up an old entry I never posted, because I feel guilty for slacking on the website. I wrote the following wayyy back in October. You can totally tell it’s dated: the guy, the newfound celebrity, the pre-meltdown indicators. Also, Kay makes an appearance, and when’s the last time I saw this girl? Oh yeah, last semester.

So here’s an oldie (but a goodie!) from when Lena was slightly unbalanced, still alcoholic, and actually sexually active …

Quite the weekend it’s been. Friday was basically a bust.

Kay and I parted ways on the corner of Mt. Auburn and Dunster with cheek kisses and assurances to do lunch. The soundtrack to my walk back home was Counting Crows’ “Mr. Jones,” blaring from inside the Fly and stuck in my mind the rest of the night.

Already, I was in no mood to deal with men. Friday had not been friendly to Kay and I. We called it quits early and made our way to Flat Patties at 1am. But the night wasn’t a complete loss. Over chili cheese fries, I caught her up on the entirety of October. I love the girl for sober moments like those.

Saturday was more eventful. I woke up the next morning dizzy and next to someone else. The standard issue college twin definitely does not facilitate premarital sex. Thank goodness I’m petite or Aidan and I would be subject to very dangerous sleeping scenarios. I remember crawling over him in in a semi-drunken stupor, stating indignantly, “I NEVER SLEEP ON THE INSIDE!” I think what I meant to convey was, “I think I’m going to roll off in the middle of the night, please help prevent this.”

The previous morning I nudged him awake, opened up his curtains, and made numerous threats to write unflattering blog entries if he didn’t get up. It was all to no avail. On Sunday morning, it was his turn to prod me relentlessly until I finally gave up all hope of sleeping in. How completely unfair, and obviously a result of territorial advantage. From now on, I will only hook up in my suite so I can sleep in as I please and the guy can trek it to his room at 2pm in his clothes from the night before. Boys have no shame.

Speaking of regrettable morning wardrobes, I made the very unwise decision to attend brunch in the same tiny top and skirt I donned hours ago at a party. Of course, I conveniently bumped into my sophomore adviser. She has the unfortunate luck of being assigned to me. Really, she couldn’t have asked for more of a handful. After she gently reminded me to see our Allston Burr Head Tutor, I reassured her that I would not sleep past yet another appointment, and would, in fact, make a personal visit to his office to assure him that I am not completely insane. Apparently, Mather House tutors have expressed concern for my well-being. I’m not surprised. In a school where everyone delivers, how do you tell people that you just can’t deal?

During brunch, a couple girls sitting in the table next to mine were discussing “Sex and the Ivy,” but promptly ceased their conversation when they realized my friend had alerted me. My life has devolved into something of a television show, at once comedic and dramatic. A dramedy, if you will.

I was telling someone just yesterday that my blog can be summed up by the following: “Hey guys, something really weird happened to me. Has this ever happened to you? No? Okay, then. I’m just a total fuckup. Thanks for the confirmation.”

This weekend was as low-key as they come, and still, I feel like life doesn’t quite turn out this way for anyone but me.

On the roof of 14 Plympton, a real-life Aidan said to me last Friday night, “Do you have any idea how much trouble your blog has caused? About 20 people have asked me if we’ve slept together.”

Oops.

I did not arrive to The Crimson Halloween party ready to face the news that I had sullied someone’s name. On the contrary — dressed festively as a pilot, I was more prepared to recruit crew members for the inaugural flight of Mile High Airlines. When I entered the Sanctum, I made a beeline for Kay and Adia who I met up with for all of two minutes before making the rounds. In the process, I became entrenched in several blogcentric discussions.

“In fact, we probably shouldn’t even be seen talking together right now,” continued real-life Aidan*.

Right. I imagine it’d be bad for shoot. Moving on, then.

(*Just kidding. Real-life Aidan would never give me the brush-off. We also slipped out when no one was looking and had mad sex in the FM office.)

Naturally, I ended up in the company of Ed Board boys who like other boys. Rody apologized for ditching me, and SM swore for about the fifth time that’d we’d do tea. Really. I dismissed the notion of a tea date ever happening and reminded the two that they were obligated to attend a grad school function with me on Thursday: open bar mixer with all the graduate school LGBT organizations. Crashing queer events? Story of my life.

I also fielded in-person criticism for the first time. “Whorish” is what the person called an uncomplimentary entry I wrote. Can’t blame him, though the in-my-face confrontation was a bit too much to handle. I would’ve stormed off if I were sober, but I stood my ground drunk and smiled politely at the tirade.

Actually, tirade or not, I probably wouldn’t have stayed at The Crimson as long as I did if I were sober. Without the assistance of six drinks at Mather Happy Hour, it would have been quite awkward to field as many blog-related inquiries as I did. Most of the people I’ve met in the building this year (and that night) already have an inkling of who I am. If it’s a daytime encounter — say in the middle of the journalism fair — shared laughs about the ridiculous blog and polite conversation ensues. But if it’s an acquaintance forged at night, that’s entirely another matter. No one thinks twice about asking inappropriate questions or gushing praise.

In fact, I’m kind of surprised (pleasantly so) that a massive Newstalk thread has not yet happened. Sex and the Ivy is prime discussion material, but I guess I’m afforded some courtesy since I’m a semi-active Crimed myself. It would suck to get trashed on the email list of an organization I belong to. Thankfully, everyone’s displayed an astonishing amount of tact. At least when it comes to email.

In person? Not so much. Especially in the case of a certain AR who met me last Friday and promptly posted a picture of the two of us on his Facebook profile. Other highlights: Harvard’s newest blogger (still underground) offered me a riding crop. A nice boy offered me a cigarette, but I don’t remember who (email me and I’ll thank you!). Someone offered me a a few smacks on the ass (email me and I’ll return the favor to your face). The hottest outfit was an Asian girl dressed as … an Asian girl. The most endearing costume belonged to one FM exec who attempted to pull a Che but looked more like a boy scout to me. A doable boy scout.

All in all, a memorable night in a building I should probably spend more time in. But for some reason, I don’t. The Crimson, especially last Friday, is the epitome of what this blog has done to my life. Everyone knows my name but the reciprocal does not hold true, nor does anyone really know me. I think it’s awfully telling that I left 14 Plympton the same way I arrived: alone.

Thursday Night, 11:28 a.m.
Originally uploaded by Elle C.

Academic obligations end at 4 p.m. Thursdays, the same time social ones begin. Vietnamese coffee at Toscanini’s with Vix. Kay on Mass Ave, between tests. Speed dinner at Grafton Street with NS (aka Nate), whose initials might as well mean “not single.”

Sprinting sprinting sprinting from Mather to the Square, stilettos in hand and my feet bare. Four T-tokens and sleepy-headed Editor. Last winter’s boy at the turnstile, three stops removed from his home, eight months removed from my heart. In the interim, he dyed his hair black and like me, it doesn’t suit him.

He said my name. I couldn’t bring myself to say his, so I introduced Editor instead. I didn’t ask why he never called.

Abruptly, Park Street. Across the Common, beyond the Gardens, past the Ritz — and now the shoes must come on after blocks of dirt and brick.

Inside, there is open-bar-assisted chatter. I am “Samidha” to the guest list. “No,” I tell them. “I do not have a business card.”

Tonight, talking comes between bites. Six drinks later, Editor and I stumble. On words, mostly. Ironic that the conversation is less steady than my feet.

Promises to keep, she reminds me. And so we walk the miles to the T, with whispers of Wurtzel, of writing, of weary between us. For her, there will be no sleep tonight.

Thursday, I am not done with you.

Readers, this entry requires your active participation. Especially if you’re boys. My blockmates and I were discussing our taste in men this evening and we realized that we (luckily) don’t share too many commonalities in that arena. In fact, each of us has kind of carved out her own niche. Unfortunately, we’ve all been suffering from lack of play as of late. Email one of these lusty ladies if you fit their standard.

BLOCKMATES

MAGGIE
maggie@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. White (mostly), tall (always).
Gotta be. Fun but slightly reserved. Athlete but not jock.
Don’t even try if … you’re a frat boy.

TERRA
terra@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. White (usually), tall (always).
Gotta be. Chivalry a must. Gentlemen please. The Brit’s got class.
Don’t even try if … you don’t have money.

SUE
sue@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. One word: Asian.
Gotta be. The quintessential nice guy for the Californian sweetie.
Don’t even try if … you’re a stoner.

JB
jb@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Jewish, please. Gay, obviously.
Gotta be. Soul optional. Tops only.
Don’t even try if … you’ve got melanin.

GAL PALS

KAY
kay@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Brown, skinny, undeserving.
Gotta be. Less awkward than the predecessors. Willing to go to coffee, really.
Don’t even try if … you’re in a final club.

ADIA
adia@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Kosher meat only.
Gotta be. Eager to spoil, willing to wait. This gal’s flower ain’t gonna be plucked.
Don’t even try if … you’re not Jewish.

INDIANA
indiana@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Big and black.
Gotta be. Built with endurance to spare. She’s got a queen-sized bed and a Quad single.
Don’t even try if … you’re otherwise committed.

AND OBVIOUSLY …

ELLE
elle@sexandtheivy.com
Prior history. Older, taller, whiter. Everything I’m not.
Gotta be. Liberal, well-endowed, and emotionally available (please). Masochistic enough to date me.
Don’t even try if … you don’t want to be blogged about.

Boys, start your engines. Email these gals now.

For the readers out there who aren’t interested in responding, leave in the comments what your ideal partner is. I’m interested in finding out. Let’s not get PC here. Be honest. If you don’t dig the brown boys, own up (ahem, Maggie). If you don’t dig the white ones, ditto (ahem, Jess). Ready, set, go.

Someone threw up in our shared shower. I am pissed for two reasons:

1. It smells like shit and I can’t shower.
2. One of the ten girls who use this bathroom is having more fun than me. What the fuck?

Last night, as usual, was a bust. ZAP-3 bought me for a cool $50 at the Mather Date Auction — now I owe him sushi, sake, and sex. Which we were due for anyway, so whatev. Post-event, I went in search of drinks that didn’t taste like alcoholic candy tarts.

Kay and I hit up Happy Hour at the Crimson, then hung out in her dorm room popping breath mints like Adderall. A Felipe’s run later and we were back at Mather, bemoaning the state of the campus social life. To be fair, there was plenty going on. The Quad, Adams, Lowell … options abound! But we just weren’t feeling the dorm party scene and the one night we really craved herbal relief, none was in sight. For me, a first.

Last night’s hearty intake of beer and Mexican food makes up for my weight loss in the past month. Kay and I have both lost an extraordinary amount of weight despite not having worked out. Her ethnic organization is working her to death. And me? Between this website, I’m taking a full load of classes, involved in four extracurriculars, and handling three internships. One month in school and I’ve lost five pounds and counting … I’ll be at 115 again by Thanksgiving, no sweat. Literally.

I woke up this morning fairly pissed off. It’s 58 degrees and I want to wear something slutty. Solution for everything.