You can't be me, I'm a Rock Star. I'm rhyming on the top of a cop car.

Because dommeyourass teased me last night about writing in my journal about my phlegm, I feel compelled to say more this morning, except there's really nothing to report. I've used up the box of tissues on my desk, but that's about it.

I have officework to do this morning. Work with a deadline. Work that isn't time-consuming, but one would think I'd do it first, then go back to e-mail and apartment searching and reading rules of publication submission, except you'd be wrong. I'm going to wait until I have 45 minutes left and then enjoy the adrenline rush of high productivity and deadline. Oh, the silly lengths I will endure to make my deskjob exciting, even if just for a moment.

This morning we looked at a house to rent by the California green line stop. It was good, not great. And yet, my brain keeps going back to it and saying "it's a house! you could live in a house!". Except the lack of yard didn't make it feel like a house, just a split-level apartment. There was a washer and dryer in the basement. And two sets of stairs. It just wasn't quite nice enough to make it work. Except....it's a house! That's what my brain keeps saying. I'm just obsessed in general with new housing. I think in some ways it's a byproduct of living in Chicago -- as long as I've been here, every time I visit someone's apartment I feel like I'm checking out the goods and shopping. Perhaps that should be added to my list: I want to live in a home that makes me not feel compelled to mentally apartment hunt whenever I'm elsewhere. That might be a bit lofty.

Yesterday I realized it was almost Friday night and I had no plans and I started to have that social panic of "it's Friday night and I have no plans!" but then it was quickly replaced by elation about having no plans. I have big plans involving cleaning out my closet, writing and lots of reading. Maybe a frozen pizza or watching a movie, depending on how much I get done. It's mostly about enjoying the company. Namely, myself.

There is nothing more than this.

The night is still young, and yet already I've discovered:

* German porn is weird. But, you know, still serves it's purpose.

* While still attached to a few random items of clothing from the past (namely my Wimbledon t-shirt with autographs and an ancient Indigo Girls t-shit with an autograph), I've finally solidified the lesson that the surge of energy that comes post-purge is way more powerful than the grip of nostalgia. Also, hello, those oversized t-shirts and sweaters are so not fashionable anymore. Actually, many of the clothing items I held on to because I didn't quite believe my body would stay the same and I'd be mad if I started needing XL shirts again and had to buy new ones. But I think three years with the same body type is long enough to let go. I'm not even the packrat I used to be and it's possible that given another year or more, I could eradicate that whole aspect of my personality. This is a little frightening.

* I can remember how I acquired most every CD in my collection -- approximate time of purchase and often the store.

* Because over half of my records have come from acquiring other people's collections plus shopping in bulk at cheap bins, I'm remarkably ignorant of wonderful gems in my own collection.

* I really need my own (writing) desk.

* I also really need a dresser.

* My taste in men is so random and varied that I managed to break a who are you attracted to? quiz, supposedly based on a 15 year scientific study. Okay, I didn't break it, but I certainly confused the hell out of it so that my results were completely contradictory and made no sense. I decided not to try taking it for women.

* I have no idea how I feel about the movie 101 Rent Boys, even though I watched it. Sympathetic? Condescending? Problematic? Intriguing? Sure, okay. But I do know I'll be taking a drive down Santa Monica Blvd with my MFABFF next time I'm in Los Angeles.

I'm now going to drag my boxes of cassette tapes into the den so I can sort while watching another movie. And maybe drink a beer. Then go to bed with half a dozen magazines and a book. This entry sure makes my life sound excrutiatingly boring. Or like heaven, depending on who you are, I suppose.