I left you all on March 5, having eaten good Chinese food, seen Keanu's new movie, and having hooked up with a hallmate and friend (in one, not in succession). Good times. Except the last thing, which was a big helping of bad idea. I wasn't too pleased with myself or friend that weekend, and sank into a post-busy-period, post-hookup black hole, sleeping several hours during the day on Saturday and sitting glumly around my dorm room the other couple hours I was up. Sunday the 6th was a bit better -- I left off feeling gloomy and started getting annoyed with self and friend, the end result of which I, in a fit of pique, posted myself onto Match.com.

Now, I know what you must be saying, as you shake your head slowly: "How could hk, she of infinite and dazzling charm, effervescence and delight, she of beauty and light, she of brilliance and wit, not be able to conjure up hordes of starstruck admirers with a snap of her delicate and graceful fingers?" Many is the time I have asked myself the same, young grasshopper. Maybe it's the New England thing, maybe it's the palpable resentment oozes from my pores when I am on campus (sticky, that resentment stuff), maybe it's the fact that I purposely hold myself back from exhibiting my true charms so as to give others a chance -- in any case, what's done is done, and my face and words, they be up on Match.

A word about the logistics of Match.com: you set up a profile of yourself, and you can then receive or send messages or "winks" to other members (a wink is a step below an actual message, it's just an indication of interest). Those helpful Match makers also send you a list of people each week that seem to match your requirements for a mate. So in the past week I've gotten several winks and messages, which has been interesting, I tell ya.

Now, I'm going to be stereotypical here for just a moment, but I must say -- what is up with men? First of all, my hookup partner tells me last Sunday (the 6th): I think you're practically perfect; you're my favorite person here, I'm really attracted to you, and I just don't know why I can't take that final step to, you know, date you.

To which I will refer you all to Bridget Jones' Diary, where Bridge's friend complains: if he'd only get over HIS commitment issues, he'd see that I actually have sigNIFicant commitment issues too. In fact, my commitment issues are just as big as his, but we're so stuck on his that mine just never come up.

Yeah. So, okay, friend and I talk about it, and I suggest that, you know, it's been several months since you've known my perfection, both personality and looks-wise, and if you don't know by now, perhaps it's a no go. 'Cause if you know, you know, you know? And friend agrees. And says he feels bad. To which I think, oh LORD.

On to more complaints. About men. On Match.

It's never easy rejecting someone, but there are several signs that I have recognized that cause the rejection process to kick in more quickly:

1. When the guy is 42 and he lists his potential partner as "between 18-42." Oh, LORD. Is it okay to date a TEENAGER when you are middle-aged? No. No, it is not, sir. It is, in fact, a sure-fire sign of grodiness. And heaven forbid that you date a woman even a year older than you. Actually, heaven forbid that you date anyone at all. Gross.

2. When the guy has "done extensive traveling in East Asia," "loves ethnic cuisine," and "speaks English and Chinese," it don't matter that he's listed both "Caucasian" and "Asian" in his preferences for partners. It is the sign of the yellow fever, my friends! Do not be fooled by the too-casual references to "love to travel," for he is only interested in sailing on the Yellow Sea. Heed my words, young grasshopper, and you shall not be stung by the yellow jacket.

3. When my profile requests partners to be within "10 miles of Crimson City," and dude lives in New Haven, CT. Read what it says, my man.

4. A trickier topic -- when the guy seems nice and all, but is, say, the desk clerk at a hotel. It is unbecoming and un-PC-ish to admit your social snobbery, but hk plunges into it, eyes closed and anticipating a blow or two: anyone who might possibly be impressed by my going to Crimson College Law School is not for me. Just don't want to deal with that kind of social distance. Sorry.

So what's left? I've "winked" back at two winkers, and have yet to hear back. I'll keep you posted, of course.

Aaaaaand, this weekend. Yes, so this weekend was a black hole. I tried to work on stuff, I really did, but I fell into the black hole. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me, but I could not stop crying yesterday. Yeah, I dunno. Same with today. I got the news that I have a really, really crappy room draw for next year (219 out of 245), so there's no way I could escape living in the same compound of prison-like buildings that I currently live in. To make it worse, the people I like in the hall are either living in an apartment, have special status so can pick their rooms before everyone else, or got a great lottery draw, so it's just me in the prison-like complex. It's unfair, yeah, but should that have wound up with me crying in bed and then taking Nyquil so that I could avoid being awake? I think perhaps not.

The trouble is, I do have a lot of work to do and some significant decisions to make (where to work this summer, for example, and if I want to live off-campus now), but I simply cannot think of anything worth doing if I got up out of bed. Put that together with a sore throat (where did that come from?), and that equals another several hours in bed today. I must admit, I'm not doing too well. Ugh. I hate this.