An amusing conversation with one of my fave ‘07ers. Happy birthday MSM!

Me: “He’s 27.”
Rody: “Okay, that’s old.”
Me: “But he’s a student! That’s like …”
Rody: “Perpetual youth? Kind of.”
Me: “The academic version of age-defying moisturizer.”

Fantastic sushi and ice cream-filled weekend, which — save for a bout of PMS — could not have been much better. And I didn’t even drink! So a few tidbits on the week:

* Spent Saturday night in gay gay company — as in both merry and homosexual. Saw Rody (whose campus presence I miss dearly), danced on tables a la Paris, and spent the better part of the evening shamelessly and publicly sucking face with an old friend, also a junior. He asked me, “Lena Chen, why don’t we make out more often?” Um, because I have a vagina?

* Just found my BCBG dress online in black and gold. It is always so weird to see a clothing item I think there’s only one version of in a completely different color palette. Thankfully, I prefer my version.

* I have a craving for another piercing, but I should probably wait this desire out. My right nipple is fully healed from early September, but the navel has been giving me some major issues. (Gross details ahead!) Last week, I had to actually re-pierce myself. The morning after a hookup, I found the piercing closed because the jewelry had come off during the night. So I made the boy wait in my bedroom while I took a sterilized needle to the bathroom and pierced the closed openings with it. Egh!

* Interesting article in the Times this Sunday about Twitter, my new “micro-blogging” addiction. The piece mentions (in a sketchy we-didn’t-interview-you way) my pal Julia who’s basically live-blogging her life at this point. If you have a short attention span and love interconnectivity, sign up for Twitter and follow me on the site. I find it highly amusing and have it synced with my mobile so I get other people’s updates throughout the day.

* Picked up a kubatan at an army surplus store on Newbury St. over the weekend. I left my pepper spray in New York and I’m going to Philadelphia this weekend so I figure I better get armed. I tried to inquire about tasers but apparently they’re illegal. Hm.

* Official details for the weekend excursion. Friday afternoon: New York, Friday evening to Sunday morning: Philly, Sunday afternoon: New York, Sunday night: Boston . Greyhound, all the way. 15 hours on the bus, $50 total travel expenses. Staying with the fab Jessica Gold.

* Last but not least, the writer’s strike is on, bitches. Pals in the industry, hang steady.

* Back from Arizona where I rang in the New Year with my So Cal pals. Flying off to Boston tomorrow night on a red-eye and arriving Friday morning to globally warmed New England.

* In my first instance of non-Ivy media attention, Radar Magazine called me a “gum-snapping phone-sex operator” in a factually questionable entry on their Pulp Friction blog. At least it’s a publication I’d subscribe to. So you know what this means: I have pop culture significance. I think this is what we call a “new low” in American society.

* The Kate Spade sale kicked off online today. I will blow the first person to buy me the Kensington Ariane in Ruby (image displayed).

* Got inked today at Shogun Tattoo — pictures tk!

* It’s the end of “The O.C.”, according to USA Today’s Pop Candy. I pretty much would let Seth Cohen do anything to me … even anal. I obviously love my Jewish boys (shoutout to Rody).

* Purchased my plane ticket to Philadelphia, thus making official my intercession plans to rendezvous with UPenn sex journalist Jessica Gold in late January.

* Apparently, no one believes Kyle put up with the longest cocktease in the history of Harvard. If it wasn’t for the circumstances, I’d out the lad just to prove it. And obviously, I still need to pen a real sex scene with actual intercourse. But these things — like his orgasms — take time.

* Check out my sidebar my new page listing the Cast of Characters (a.k.a. everyone I’ve libeled, stalked, and drunk dialed). Also, blog entries are now tagged with character names for handy access to archived dirt. I think it’d be awesome to host a Reading Period tea party with all characters in attendance. Okay, so it miiight be a bit awkward for the guys. This is an event in progress.

* And lastly, there are now icons to “share the sex.” Digg me.

I have recently fallen in love with The Crimson. Specifically, Crimson parties, without which my weekends would be ever so dull. Despite having penned only one article (a FM Endpaper on dating investment banker Summer Guy), I’ve spent more time at 14 Plympton St. this semester than I did all of freshman year. It’s partly because HN and this blog have gotten me acquainted with entirely too many upperclassmen execs. It’s mostly because drinking with journalists is less random than a dorm party but just unfamiliar enough to still meet cute boys.

Unfortunately, most of these cute boys are gay, terrified of me, or roving reporters. As much as I love my new Crimed pals, I’m already a hag to more than enough fags (after Thursday’s jaunt to Embassy, Rody has officially claimed me as his). So after three months of partying with nary a glance from an interested straight male, I was less than expectant at last Friday’s event in the Sanctum. Still, all it takes is one too many shots for renewed hope.

Tipsy from self-made drinks hijacked at a Christmas party, HN and I threw down our coats in the FM office and I threw out my shame as I spent the better part of the evening sipping Oregon Trail-inspired cocktails while making eyes at the attractive guy across the room. After I gave him a full glance-over, got an introduction from our mutual acquaintance, and batted my eyelashes at him a couple more times, I finally asked for a cigarette. He looked like a smoker, and I was right. He directed me to his pal who supplied the three of us with our nicotine hit and supplied me with an excuse to get him alone on the roof. Rude to smoke inside, after all.

Clad in a thin sweater and seersucker skirt, my only saving grace that chilly evening was wearing black tights underneath and even they proved inadequate. Then again, it meant that I didn’t need to pretend when I told Smoker Boy that it was colder than expected. Liquid courage on my side, I leaned in close to him and shivered under his jacket, grazing his back with my fingertips. By the time I finished my cigarette, I was a few coughs from permanent lung damage and a few close calls from throwing myself at him completely.

But that was the extent of my flirtation. Not much later, I exited the party sans HN, sans Smoker Boy, and sans swipe access (the new staff director has got to get on that). Maybe I wasn’t forward enough. Maybe I should’ve offered him a standing invitation to drunkenly text me some time. After all, he was cute up close, sweet from what I could tell, and he wasn’t going to quote me in the morning. What more could you ask for from a guy you meet at The Crimson? Smoker Boy, I should’ve given you my phone number. Facebook me?

There’s something inherently fucked up with your life if you wake up Friday morning naked and still drunk. This is the tipsiest I’ve been while composing a blog entry.

I spent last night partying post-Fogg with CK and Rody. Four and a half glasses of wine at a grad school mixer. Another solo cupful at a Crimson Happy Hour. It is 8:30 a.m. and I have trouble standing. I am 5′2″, Asian, and the perfect target for sexual assault.

Last night’s chronologically coherent set of memories is limited to everything that occurred before I walked through Leverett Courtyard. I remember that because the swipe access actually works from the towers’ side now (someone finally fixed it) and I didn’t have to do that awkward reach-around.

Once in Mather House, I came home to an empty room, went to Aidan’s, got pissed off (can’t remember why but I’m pretty sure he did something terribly guyish), and stormed out — more or less not steadily on my stilettos. Back in my room, I discovered his cell phone in my purse (we have the same phones), informed him via Gmail chat, and he came down to retrieve it.

This is the part where it gets good. In my not-so-soundproof common room, I completely went off. I told him everything I thought was wrong with him but would never say to his face — at least not without some major tempering of language. I literally informed him that he was a fuck up, that there were serious revisions he needed to make to his life. I can’t remember exactly what I said but it epitomized drunken tirades. Even though drunk people say things they wouldn’t say sober, I like to think that I still self-censor to a semi-acceptable degree. Last night, I was too drunk to censor and too angry to shut up.

I also probably threw things I shouldn’t have thrown and lost one half of my awesome stilettos. I think Allie was home. My clothes somehow came off. I ended up in bed. I answered a phone call from a 301 area code I don’t recognize now. I should reveal that I only know all this happened thanks to the archived and drunken Gmail chat that more or less sums up the insanity. And though it appears that I had issues with punctuation and train of thought, I displayed a surprising ability to remain articulate.

In conclusion, I was a shit show last night, I am hungover right now, but the writer in me always prevails.