People in Boston always seem to be surprised by my affinity to bourbon. Maybe it’s not a girly drink, but I grew up in a town that borders Kentucky, which is all about bourbon. This includes the delightful treat known as a bourbon ball, which people frequently get as stocking stuffers around the holidays. The first time I heard about these was in middle school when my best friend swore she managed to get drunk from eating a box of these. So when I make these, I am very heavy-handed with the bourbon.
When I first came to MIT, I was very insecure of the fact that I wanted to study humanities at a technical school. It didn’t help that I surrounded myself with people that were premed, and these individuals always said I was taking the easy way out. It also didn’t help that my sister majored in writing, and I witnessed firsthand how difficult it was to for her to secure adequate employment without pursuing further graduate studies.
I never wanted to wear glasses. At one point, I was so desperate to avoid being called “four eyes” that I ate raw carrots nonstop for a year after hearing that their vitamins gave rabbits great vision. It made sense at the time since the wild rabbits in my neighborhood seemed capable of seeing in the dark. However, it was an unappetizing experience that didn’t help my vision and made me avoid carrots for a decade.
At the start of the semester, I blogged an image of an ad saying “penicillin cures gonorrhea in 4 hours” with the added quote, “‘And, if you happen to have a really bad hookup, you might need this organic compound the next day.’ —5.12 professor on reasons why you should study organic chemistry.” I knew that many of the people who read my personal blog would appreciate the dorky humor behind the joke. I didn’t expect it to fuel online trolls into releasing my work address, in addition to an incorrect work address for my dad. I also didn’t expect these trolls to misconstrue the quote as my discussing my personal life, let alone as an admission that I’ve contracted gonorrhea. I’ve never contracted gonorrhea — or any STIs, for that matter — but as the picture states, it is curable!
I have become a fiercely private individual when it comes to my romantic life. These days, it takes me a while to warm up to people enough to even acknowledge whether or not I have a boyfriend. It’s not information I usually freely offer, and I don’t believe that undermines any of my feelings towards a romantic partner. Instead, I think it’s a greater testimony of my independence with my refusal to ever publicly acknowledge an intimate relationship.
I grew up in a small town in West Virginia, which is famous for its basketball players and health problems. Due to the hills that surround the area, it’s very difficult to rely on walking as a primary mode of transportation. Unfortunately, I fit the Asian female driving stereotype, and even though I have my driver’s license, for the safety of others, I rarely operate a vehicle. I also have no internal compass, and relying on other people to drive you around results in them trusting you to navigate. As a result, I completely rely on GPS or Google Maps on my iPhone to get my friends from point A to point B. However, for familiar areas, I am a landmark person.
When I was a freshman, I truly believed Central Square was the “bad” part of town. My memories of the area centered on a misplaced Gap (now out-of-business) and a very “colorful” Wendy’s. Back then, I never would’ve imagined that I would eventually move off campus to live in this neighborhood. Out of all the Boston neighborhoods, it’s one of my favorites. For the time being, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.
Anyone who has ever taken basic Physics, which is a graduation requirement at MIT, can tell you that friction is the arch-nemesis of motion. Friction always opposes motion, and whenever bodies are in contact, a la intercourse, there will be friction. Some friction is a good thing, but too much can lead to painful consequences. When that happens, the result isn’t pleasant for either partner. Usually there’s a chain reaction: if a partner goes dry, the other partner goes soft. Many a virgin has botched an attempt at losing it because of too much friction.
On the way back to Boston for this summer, I lost my MacBook. Yes, I am careless enough to leave a laptop in a cab. In my defense, I flew back with my cat, Duke, and, having put my laptop underneath his carrier, I was more concerned about getting Duke situated than making sure I had everything.
When I run into people these days, I sometimes get asked, “Are you still writing your column?” If you’ve been following, my articles, this term, have been much more sporadic, and it’s not because I’m running low on material. If anything, I’ve been having more sex rather than less.
MIT is full of numbers, from buildings to classes. We’re surrounded by them. Who doesn’t associate with some form of numbers? There are the ones that we always remember: our course numbers, our phone numbers, and our student ID numbers. And then, there are numbers that we choose to forget, like our “count.”
Movies make the worst first dates — unless they invoke insightful discussion. This Valentine’s Day, I decided to watch <i>Confessions of a Shopaholic</i> — on a first date — because, well, I wasn’t expecting much from the date nor the movie. Instead, I had a great first date, at the expense of not taking the movie seriously.
I just got back from West Virginia. Whenever I’m home and run into a high school friend (which always seems to happen at Wal-Mart), I always ask 3 questions: who’s married?, who’s engaged?, and the big one: who’s pregnant? At least ten of my high school friends are pregnant or already have children. The scary thing is that most of them are my age, and I’m just turning 20 today. After spending time with a friend’s baby, I couldn’t help but wonder if I want kids.
Last year, I spent Valentine’s Day in a mental hospital. The day before that, I spent a couple of hours in jail. In the age of the Internet, I should be terrified to write this piece, as Google will forever attach it to my name. Then again, my reputation on the World Wide Web isn’t exactly flawless — this information about me is already out there in an MIT Police log and in my personal blog.
According to my mother, I started “dating” in preschool. His name was Timothy, and when we’d say “goodbye,” I’d lick him across his face in front of both of our mothers. Now, I know this story sounds far fetched, but all my relatives remind me that I greeted them with slobber, instead of a kiss, until I hit the age of 5. Also, there’s a photograph of a birthday party in preschool, and I’m sitting awfully close to a boy, with my tongue hanging out. On the back of the photo, it says, “Christine and Timothy.”
Each year, MIT sends out convenient fliers to incoming freshmen with all the “important” dates listed. However, they leave off the most important date — the day you “break up with your high school relationship.” Maybe it’s because this date varies for each individual. For some freshmen, they covered this months ago. If you haven’t covered it yet, mark your calendar; the days are limited.
Shopaholic that I am, I own five different swimsuits — except, I can’t swim. Well, I can doggy paddle, but flailing pathetically around a pool just isn’t very attractive. I would wear flotation devices, except that’s even less attractive. (But, it’s a fashion statement! Suuure.)
Holidays are about family — and sometimes, that includes the significant other’s family. My parents have not liked any of my boyfriends, and I’ve told every boyfriend to be himself. That was my mistake. It’s not that he can’t be himself — it’s just that he should be the professional version. I might be able to forgive drinking out of the milk carton; however, my dad will instantly go into the bacterial colonization of the defenseless milk. (I should really show him the carton in Pecker.)
Impulsive shopper that I am, I spent an ungodly amount on a Halloween costume last year. Costumes are like red carpet outfits: it’s a fashion sin to be caught in the same one from a previous year. For guys, it’s not as big of a deal because their outfits are rarely memorable in both situations.
Sex is full of trial and error. No one will ever claim that the best sex they ever had was when they lost their virginity, well, unless that was the only sex they ever had. Each person is different, and it usually takes a lot of experimentation to figure out just what works. However, do we reach a point where we get too comfortable and cease to experiment?
69 is a semiprime — a Blum integer — and, more importantly, the only way most guys propose cunnilingus. Out of the handful of times (trust me, I can count it on one hand) that I’ve had this done, over fifty percent have happened in this context. Now, it doesn’t take a Course 18’er to realize that men are getting lazy. Well, speaking of math, I’d like note that the most important part of this position is body proportions. At a mere five feet, I haven’t fooled around with a guy less than eight inches taller than me. This normally doesn’t pose a problem — except here.
Third base, oral sex, usually generates more controversy than sex itself. Well, even Bill Clinton claimed that oral sex isn’t really sex. He’s right — it’s a lot messier, and everyone has a different opinion of it. The act of giving oral sex really isn’t that complicated for both genders. There are some general guidelines: focus, change motions, use your hands if you need support, watching makes it better, and, whatever happens, don’t use your teeth.