Reader Poll: Despite the pseudonyms, do you guys know who the boys and girls of this blog are? Just wondering about the visibility of recurring characters like Adia, Terra, and JB.

---

No better way to spend Friday night than consuming large amounts of your least favorite alcohol. Call it an acquired taste, I just never got into tequila — though it still trumps whiskey (which I’ve never attempted again after an unfortunate post-graduation incident).But I digress. Let’s start from the top. Met up around nine with my favorite gal pal who was then denied entrance to Casino Night, a Mather-only event, so we naturally decided to drink alone. After taking Aidan’s martini back to my newly cleaned room for a “power half-hour”, we decided it was time for Crashing Events We Don’t Belong At: Take 2.

Success! Casino Night for the two of us included a “How many chips can you fit in your bra?” game with Matt as well as girl-on-girl action via an arm-wrestling challenge (we were manipulated by sick, sick men). Adia urged me to eat before I drank so I ate a handful of grapes in hopes that they would ferment during digestion. Between my outfit (nonexistent) and her liver (also nonexistent), we pretty much knew this night could only end in nasty hangovers and regrettable hookups. Possibly with each other.

So maybe not. But thanks to Mather golf (different drinks at every hole, i.e. dorm room), we did manage to get nice and drunk and make new BFFs — with boys too, because guys are totally the best drinking buddies. I’ve determined since last night that group drinking is an uber form of co-dependency. Sometime between my third and fourth tequila shot, Aidan stopped pouring drinks, looked me in the eye, and asked, “Lena, are you at your limit?” — a legitimate question considering the last time I golfed. I glanced at everyone else present, including the petite, susceptible-to-suggestion Adia. A dismissive, sober “no” later, and I was on shot number six. I knew I was going somewhere good even if my liver disagreed. Impromptu dance party ensued, Adia disappeared (as she often does), I flirted shamelessly with ‘09 boys (never happens when sober), and Nate made a surprise appearance an hour too late to regulate my ass.

Somehow, I ended in my bedroom, said a somewhat drunk hello to Sue, and heated up rice because it was the closest food in proximity. Adia came over to pick up her shit, I chatted with Matt for a few moments, and my night ended quite uneventfully save for a drunk dial from Summer Guy at 5 a.m. (Um, time difference, much?) Today I woke up with nary a regret. Well, maybe a couple, considering the secrets I spilled in my drunken state. But I’m hoping my conversation partners were too inebriated themselves to remember.

In conclusion, Friday night is what every night should be like for the next month: Adia, alcohol, and abstinence.

Single ain’t so bad on Valentine’s. In the past 24 hours, I’ve traded “I love you’s” with Summer Guy, walked out of a lecture to talk to Sam, and exchanged greetings with a New Yorker I plan on seeing this weekend. I met two boys for the first time (separately, both for coffee), received messages from readers (thanks!), and also managed to piss off Peter via text message. No small feat considering the wonderful timing.

I think it’s fantastic that every guy who remotely gives a shit about me is currently at least 200 miles from Boston.

It’s been a quiet day. Save for my meeting at the Agassiz (I’m producing a show there, can you believe it?) I didn’t do anything terribly productive. I’m sure the weather’s to blame. For dinner, Nate (see left, in better weather) and I went to Tanjore where I ordered Aloo Mutter and lamented my lack of flowers. But what’s really sad is my lack of sex.

I haven’t had sex in a week and a half. I expect to break out into a rash at any second. I suppose I could make a phone call to a local hookup if I really wanted to (and trust me, Valentine’s is the day to do it) but I’m utterly disappointed with the hos in this area code. Then again, pretty much every guy on my current roster — Bostonian or not — has some major failing (be it commitmentphobia or Republicanism).

Just about the only person who doesn’t continually frustrate me is Kyle and that’s probably because my expectations for him are exceedingly low. I was telling my roommates last night that Kyle’s unabashed sleaziness is infinitely better than the shit I encounter from guys like Mark who disappear and reappear at whim or guys like Summer Guy who admit they love me in the same breath they deny our romantic possibility. Kyle may be no saint but at least I know exactly what to expect — nothing.

I think the real cause of my frustrations is the fact that I’ve been playing around with the same five guys since mid November/early December. Like my black leather boots, they’re a season old. But unlike my boots, they don’t complement me better as the winter goes on. If anything, things have stagnated. And by “things,” I mean everything — sex, relationships, conversations, etc. It is February 15 and it might as well be 2006 again. I’m just bored and not even in a self-indulgent, “I have a short attention span, so interest me” kind of way. I’m bored from desperately wanting passion and ending up with excuses about distance and lack of time and youth and bullshit.

I’m tired of bullshit.

Maggie, JB, and I discussed the boundaries of monogamy last night. Both vehemently disagreed that a sexually open relationship could work. But honestly, I see such a clear separation between my physical and emotional needs. The latter can easily be fulfilled at long-distance. The former — though something I’m certainly willing to compromise — obviously necessitates regular interaction. Though I’m quite fond of Summer Guy, I don’t particularly care if he dates or sleeps with other women. It doesn’t make me love him less. The one thing we’re missing is a relationship label, and even then, I can’t tell you if that would dramatically alter the way we relate to one another or my feelings toward physical intimacy with other people. Sex doesn’t mean a damn thing.

I am almost convinced that Sam is this happy medium between all the madness. He’s not in Boston, but close enough for visits. The distance makes him attentive in a conveniently non-intrusive way. He’s older (which I prefer) but a student (which is easy to relate to). Sex is great, even orgasmic. And the big one: he’s emotionally available — almost unbelievably so. Just about his only flaw is his fiscal conservatism, and I’m sure I can fix that with time.

So why am I second-guessing his motives all the time? Probably because I’m more used to 20-something boys than I am 20-something men.

We’ll see what the four-day trip away brings. New York tomorrow night. Philly this weekend if I’m feeling spontaneous. See you Monday, Harvard.

The best part of being infamous is that there’s not much more I can do to ruin my own reputation. Last night was a shitshow that ended in the hospital, but mortified I am not — even if I did get wheeled off on a stretcher in the middle of the Tri-House Formal. In my eagerness to become as intoxicated as possible, I counted on my dear friend Nate (also known as NS on this blog) to keep my liver in check. He even brought his roommate Hamilton along for the ride. Between two strapping six-foot tall gentlemen, how much trouble could one petite (albeit excitable) Asian gal be? Apparently, plenty. Especially if all parties are equally blitzed.

After attending the Mather champagne toast, my blockmates and I split up to meet our individual dates. Upon rendezvouing with Nate and Hamilton, I pulled aside the former (my official escort for the evening) and told him that I wouldn’t even set foot in the formal if not for his company. He was a pillar of support. Besides opening my doors, his job for the night was to keep me from drinking too much or in lieu of that, embarassing myself while drunk. We made a mutual promise — I stopped at five drinks and he took care of me. It was on the fourth room of the seven-room Mather pregame that we mutually broke that agreement over group tequila shots (my sixth drink of the evening and the first indication that events would soon spiral out of control).

Happily intoxicated, we somehow found our way to the formal. But for my dates and I, the Mather pre-game was the game, as we recalled very little after entering the Faculty Club. The last thing I remember before having my feet and shoulders lifted onto a strecher was flirting with Hamilton over cheese and crackers. My former freshman fall fuck buddy, Hamilton and I jumped into bed again just a couple weeks ago like an unofficial one-year anniversary celebration of no-strings-attached sex. In my drunken stupor, I thought a repeat encounter would be preferable to sleeping without company, especially considering my strictly platonic relationship with Nate.

It was not to be. Shortly after losing sight of my two boys, the eight or so drinks I had hit me hard. I puked and passed out on Faculty Club furniture while hundreds of my peers dined and danced in close proximity. Then there was a stretcher, an ambulance, and a hospital room at Mt. Auburn where I vaguely recall a nurse saying that my blood alcohol level was at .25, three times the legal limit. This morning, I was driven by HUPD to UHS where I slept away at Stillman until waking at 9:00 a.m. to sunshine and a nasty hangover.

Allie picked me up after the doctor conducted a mandatory interview. A year ago, I might’ve paid attention, but this time, I was impatient to leave and I knew there was nothing that could be said that would induce startling rethinking of my life — I was already in therapy, after all. The doctor asked me what happened, to which I responded flatly, “I had too much to drink.” She asked me how often this happened and as I recounted my drinking habits, I already knew where this was headed. “Listen, I don’t have a drinking problem,” I said. “I have a much bigger problem than that. I think I have a mood disorder.” After explaining that last night was the exception to otherwise responsible sophomore year behavior, I assured her that the mental health professionals at UHS had me covered. She assured me that she’d alert my therapist — how thoughtful.

It was at that point that she leaned in and asked, “So what do you think of the state of mental health at Harvard? I’m always curious to see what people have to say.” In no mood to mince my words, I responded, “Let me put it this way: I don’t think people come to Harvard to be happy or to feel good about themselves. But as banking careers indicate, we sign up knowing that this insanely difficult lifestyle is the one we choose to lead. We’re all masochists.”

I hope she appreciated the honesty, because I couldn’t appreciate the educational handouts less. As a freshman, I never took them seriously. As a sophomore, I finally sought help — not because some authority figure or piece of paper told me to, but because a friend did. As other compulsive behavior surfaced — an eating disorder, a shopping addiction, serial monogamy — I determined the real cause of the rampant drinking that took place all last year: a desire to avoid life. It wasn’t until entering therapy that I pinpointed what I used all this unhealthy behavior to escape. It wasn’t until last night became the exception and not the rule that I discovered my flirtation with alcohol dependency had ended. I hadn’t drunken for the wrong reasons all term, and perhaps I needed to do it once more in order to realize that I was finally over it. Last night will remain an isolated incident. For all that can be said of my other bad habits, alcohol abuse is not one I plan on slipping back into.

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.

It’s the same conversation with a different excuse. Change up the players — the guy and the girl, maybe two guys or two girls. Switch the setting — the Charles, the dorm room, the T-station, the Yard. The sentiments are the same. The conversation is the same. A divergence of expectations, unavoidable disappointment, regret and resentment.

“How awkward was that?”
“I know. I’m blogging about it.”
“About those two?”
“Not just them. Everyone has that conversation.”

Even I do, despite my best efforts.

“That” conversation is why I found myself at 3:27 a.m. last night slumped up against the dorm room door of my hookup du jour. He was saying everything I didn’t want to hear. I was trying to remember to breathe. But since my sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated self could only concentrate on one thing at a time, I opted for his words over oxygen intake. This was the fourth time I heard the same thing, and it didn’t make any more sense now than it did before.

Yes, the fourth time. Because the first, second, and third time he issued an explanation days prior, our collective faulty judgment led to the ultimate mixed signal. We had sex. Sober. In college, that’s either the best or worst mistake you can make.

For me, the latter is proving true. The position I’m currently in is worse than anything the kama sutra could propose. It’s no secret who I’m sleeping with, and I get the feeling that double standards and general gossip will not be kind to my reputation. What do I get out of this? Nothing other than a few blogworthy experiences — oh and of course, the acquaintance of a guy whose psyche I am now as familiar with as his anatomy.

Not worth it, I say. After all, I never had to fuck Rellim or Nate to obtain gal pal status. So here I get a well-endowed friend out of my trouble. Whatever. Heartbreak is entirely unnecessary in the platonic scheme of things. And similarly, heartbreak shouldn’t require platonism after the fact. Is “let’s be friends” really any better than “please fuck off”? The last thing I need after my feelings have been trampled on is for you to play nice. Buck up, be the asshole you are, and make it easier for me to do my job — that is, hate you.

But back to the point, which is the commonality of the college experience, of love and of learning. At this moment, I’m sitting in the dining hall, watching my premed roommate slave over her organic chemistry book. The conversation I just witnessed a few minutes ago is the same one I had not 24 hours prior. The response paper I have due in the morning (i.e. very soon) is the last thing on my mind. The guy across the room is the first.

Yes, I go to Harvard, I have sex, and I blog about it. But I make the same mistakes, wish for the same impossibilities, and play out my role in the same uncomfortable conversations as everyone else. The reasons are different but the message is the same, and ivy-covered walls offer no protection against the pain that is wrought by fractured expectations. At the end of the night, I go to bed disappointed. In the morning, I wake up alone.