Shopping week is finally done — I am registered, sectioned, and ready to go!

* Currently have a love-hate relationship with the weather. Adore the sunniness, could do without the windiness. Snow’s coming in for Valentine’s … definitely need a cuddle buddy. Regardless, I’m so glad I get to pass by this beautiful river view every morning.

* If you haven’t already, support Harvard Computer Society’s Valentine’s Day effort to bring some love to campus! Fill out your Datamatch forms and get a list of your most compatible Harvardian matches.

* I wrote my debut column for CollegeHumor last week, generating 130+ critical comments. This week, check out a commentary on getting ass at any cost on Valentine’s Day. I suggest something absurd like preying on insecure girls for sex; people totally take me seriously. If only this happened in tutorial.

* At Saturday night’s date auction, Terra bought me and I bought (half of) her pal. Adia and I are headed to Broadway sometime this spring on a $110 joint date with a hunky Harvard theater veteran.

* The Harvard Independent did a Valentine’s Day interview with me and I had a fun photo shoot with my favorite man — John Harvard. And by fun, I mean I was told to channel “tortured artist.” Here I am looking … morose.
* Tried yoga for the first time at Karma Yoga Studio with the Asian American Women’s Association. Brought Terra along for figurative support but could have used some literal assistance. I was way off-balance most of the time and I woke up today with new sore spots.

* My final course list this semester includes Sociology 156: Quantitative Methods in Sociology; Sociology 97: Tutorial in Sociological Theory; Sociology 67: Visualizing Social Problems In Documentary Film and Photography; and Foreign Cultures 67: Popular Culture in Modern China.

I’m taking a trip to New York for President’s Day weekend. I’m arriving this Thursday night and staying until Monday afternoon. Absolutely no plans or accommodations at the moment, but I guess we’ll see what I can pull off last-minute.

Me: Wait, you don’t have keg stands in England?

Terra: No. We go to the pub and get a pint, go back and get another pint, go back and get another pint, and get pissed in a very slow, decorous fashion.

[Also, today is the last day to submit nominations for the 2006 Sex Blogs Awards (see sidebar). Enter your submission here.]

Terra: “From now on, I’m celibate.”
Me: “Honey, you’re a virgin.”

And I don’t even consider being underneath my covers at 3am, sane and sober, a complete tragedy. Usually, I’d have to be a drunk mess before declaring the evening over. But it’s too much work to have fun at this school and tonight I don’t have the energy. As I told JZ earlier on the phone, “I’m cold and underage.” That rules out waiting outside final club doors or hitting up a bar for overpriced, oversweetened drinks. Besides, Terra and I have blown our pride, livers, and budgets this past week. It’s time for damage control.

It’s funny that I find myself more together this weekend than I have in a long time. It’s the big Harvard-Yale football game tomorrow, and tonight was supposed to be fairly ridiculous, a night when gals like me push their limits beyond limits. But last year, I was surprisingly sober as well. I didn’t even drink a drop at the tailgate. I guess we’ll see how well I hold up tomorrow, but I get the feeling that I’ll remain cognizant and even responsible (well, maybe …)

Last night, a guy I’ve been spending time with (sweet, but fairly clueless) kicked me out of his room at 3am in the middle of the biggest storm Cambridge has seen this autumn. His reasoning? “If you stay, I’m not going to be able to fall asleep, and I have a third-round interview tomorrow.” I thought I had gotten used to the extent of this school’s ridiculousness, but that I just couldn’t stomach. Only at Harvard.

Tonight, I hit up Mather with Allie, Quincy with Adia, and Winthrop with HN. In between, I managed to run into four guys I slept with (at least). If this evening had a catchphrase, it’d be, “Shit. I think I fucked him.” I really need to transfer schools.

Also notable was hearing two Winthrop sophs yell my name while HN and I were walking down Mill Street. Typically when I fly solo, I get approached once or twice a night about my blog, and I write off these incidents as annoying occurrences. Not the case here. Not only was I fielding inquiries with HN in tow, but the kids who stopped me were girls. Plus, they acknowledged quite sweetly that they knew I didn’t like being approached. Chick fans are so rare and are definitely preferable to the sweaty, towering men who give off stalker vibes. Hyper, endearingly fanatic girls are just different. You’ve got to stop for them, even if it’s fucking freezing and you’re reconsidering your (lack of) wardrobe decision. I think HN was fairly bewildered, but it just goes to show that I do not make up this whole blog-intruding-on-life stuff.

Today’s epiphany in therapy: I exhibit impulsive behavior. I am self-destructive. I overindulge in sex, shopping, and food to distract from life’s problems. Basically, I’m just a big fucking mess. Let’s hope I get diagnosed with something soon so I can refer to an actual illness instead of vaguely saying, “I have mental issues.” Anyway, my therapist is right on mark with everything, but then again, I could probably give myself therapy. I feel like every conversation I have about my issues only leads to some new epiphany. Every week, I go into UHS with so many self-revelations that her job must be pretty damn easy.

As far as over-indulgence goes: tonight, Terra and I had a $100 dinner at Om. I also bought a case of Smirnoff Ice. An entire case. That’s lasting until next semester. Last Monday, I snagged red stilettos and purchased brown flats. They constituted the last part of my $650 shopping spree.

I know that flats are uncharacteristic of me, but I needed something appropriate for class. These are my new faves next to the purple BCBG stilettos. I probably like my collection of shoes more than any boy I’ve ever slept with. Ralph and Max are the most dependable men I know.

Last week at Winthrop Stein Club, someone I met called me a “sex goddess.” Quite the compliment considering that he’s never so much as seen the inside of my bedroom. But I suppose he was making an educated remark, considering that I do write a sex blog after all. Unfortunately, he and most other people have no idea just how stale my sex life is. Other than my roommates, who are privy to what (and who) goes down, no one knows that I’m gunning for Santa’s nice list this year.

The common perception among readers seems to be that I have an uncommonly active and satisfying sex life, that I’m a tiger in the sack, and that I’m always up for more action. If only. While freshman girls have called me their “hero,” “idol,” and “role model” (actual quotes!), the truth is that my sophomore self really hasn’t done anything — or anyone — worth emulating. Believe it or not, my sex life is actually really boring.

I have had sex maybe five times in the past two months, possibly less but definitely not more. The number of partners? A grand total of two, one of whom is Berklee (an ex who really shouldn’t count because we slept together in the most platonic manner ever). Promiscuous? Hardly. Everyone seems to think that my hypothetical bedpost has been whittled down to nothing when it is actually several notches short of scandalous.

What’s even more unbelievable is that I haven’t even indulged in the occasional casual hookup. Apparently, kissing with tongue has became a huge deal to me, because I can no longer handle friendly lip-to-lip action, even when drunk. I’ve turned down every single guy who’s tried to hook up with me this semester, Aidan included. Call me a control freak, but I only let things happen on my own terms. This wasn’t last year’s mindset. Making out with someone never caused such a fuss before, yet the only person I’ve kissed without hesitation so far is the ever-sexy Miss Sue and I don’t think she counts.

Public hookups were my freshman forte, but kissing someone mid-dance floor now seems inconceivable. I don’t even grind with guys anymore. The only dance partners I’m comfortable getting dirty with are either gay (Rody), platonic (ZAP), or so-not-an-option (one of Aidan’s roommates) that my vagina doesn’t feel threatened. In fact, I’ve noticed that I purposely avoid situations where someone might try to hook up with me. Alone with a boy in his bedroom? Rare. Alone with a boy in mine? Never. When did I become such a prude?

Just about the only nights I do have sex are weekends, and usually I’m several sheets to the wind (i.e. drunk). Alcohol is my aphrodisiac, sad to say. Without it, I’d be hopeless. Maybe I have performance anxiety, but I’m just not particularly confident in my sexual prowess when sober, nor am I keen on initiating. But thanks to the liberating effects of liquid courage, I pounce without shame. I’m also much louder than usual — great for my partner, not so great for his roommates or my red-faced self come morning. I never had problems with summoning my inner minx before. Could it be that I’ve actually developed a sense of modesty? It’s a shame.

My blockmates are the ones who should really be writing a sex blog. They’re doing far better in bed than I am. One pal’s still in the honeymoon period with her new boyfriend so I can only imagine the ferocity with which they hook up. JB’s informed me that his sex sessions with the BU beau are quite … vocal. Hell, even Terra’s pulled crazier shit than I have this year. The Brit’s publicly made out with not one but two young gents from a certain club that will remain nameless.

What’s worse than my lack of activity is my lack of desire. Usually, I’m not horny at all. My sexual appetite has been crushed under the heavy weight of my extracurricular commitments. Sleep, not sex, is the prevailing desire nowadays. Even if I’ve got company in bed, I’m more apt to cuddle than I am to fuck. At the end of the night, who has the energy to engage in multi-hour romps when last-minute reading awaits in the morning?

So I guess my point is that my sex life is more myth than truth. To the girls out there: you’re probably better off looking up to one of my blockmates. And to the guys: sorry, I’m afraid I have an early section.