My walls are bare. I look around and ask myself, Who the hell lives here? It's a very weird time. I'm going home tomorrow at get my new computer and borrow the van for next weekend. I've lived here for three full years, longer than I've lived anywhere else, except my home in Grand Blanc. Not for love or money will I move back in with my parents, but it is still my home; until I have a space which I share with the girl of my dreams, it will always be my home. 1213 was an important place in my life, but never home.

I taped Helen of Troy last night and tried to watch it this afternoon; however, I had to turn it off after an hour due to it's horrendous inaccuracy. The story of the Trojan War, primarily related to us through The Iliad, is perhaps the greatest story in human history. It does not need to be twisted and altered by a hack writer in the employ of USA Networks.

I've finished Where Is Joe Merchant? and am now taking a brief detour through the Bald Mountain's copy of Bruce Campbell's If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor. Then, I hope to finish A Clockwork Orange, on loan from The Guy, and finally move on to Something Happened, Lindsay's recommendation. I hope I enjoy it more than the last book she gave me to read, Kissing in Manhatten. I greatly enjoyed one of the stories, "The Smoker," but could have largely done without the rest. More Watergirl flotsom from Joe Merchant: some more make-up packaging, several brightly colored feathers, and an unused ticket to see Barenaked Ladies at the Palace. Shame that.