I am an island.

So, as always happens when I try to work on my actual WRITING--as in, stuff that has a beginning, middle, and end, and maybe some kind of point--my blogging has completely disappeared. I'm trying to get art back into my life, and while I'm succeeding in that--stage-managing a show about femme queer art and trying to write a script for a playwriting contest--my blogging has completely fallen by the wayside.

In some ways, living by oneself allows one to tunnel further and further into oneself, becoming certainly more insular and, if one is also obsessive complusive, then exponentially more narcissistic as well. Examples of insularity: because I am naturally a dirty person--shout-outs to the two people among my reading audience who have lived with me--I am likely, with no outside influence, to get dirtier and dirtier. Last night after wearing the same clothes for almost a month, taking them to Pittsburgh, and moving in them, not to mention usually sleeping in them, I realized that I STUNK.

Also I realized that I had a pot that had originally held mac + cheese soaking in my sink--for days now--and the mac+cheese water STUNK. Enough to put me off mac and cheese for a long, long time.

And I could have let those travesties go on even longer--Titan wouldn't mind, certainly--but I pulled my socks up and got to it. I did two loads of laundry and washed all my dishes. I hung up my clothes. I finally unpacked--fully--from Pittsburgh. I went to bed at 1:30, tired but content.

See what I mean? There is nothing interesting about the above story WHATSOEVER. I'm excited to have a clean house, and even more excited that the entire apartment now smells like Mrs. Meyers Lemon Verbana scent, but no one else should be excited by this.

I could mention that I was hit on, fully and obviously, while buying Sparks--a cute young punk saw my Blockbuster bag, asked me what movies I was watching, and then said, "Would you like company?" I was so suprised I asked him to repeat himself, and he said, slowly and clearly, "Would you like. Company?" And I smiled and said no, but I appreciated the offer--true--and went off, smiling to myself. And I might be able to make a good story out of that, but that's not HALF as important to ME as the fact that I have a clean apartment--well, clean-ish, I still have vaccuumed or fully unpacked--and so I don't want to write about it. I only want to write about boring stuff. Like laundry.

Sigh.

For all those who laid bets at the time of the New Male Roommate announcment, we're dating now. Just so you know.