I prowled around the racks and tables, eyes sharp. I don't believe either of my flatmates had ever partaken in - or witnessed, at least - this experience before.

"I want college-ruled lines. Or thinner. Maximium writing space. I can't stand journals with all of those empty borders. It's a waste of a page.

"I don't like bound volumes. I'll write a book, someday, but this is a journal. I don't want to worry about making a mistake, having to cross something out, and feeling as if I've ruined the book for all time. That's why the velvet-cover journal from college didn't work out.

"Anyway, those kinds of jouranls aren't comfortable. If it's book-bound, it cramps your right hand as you're trying to write on the left-side pages. You can't write as much because your hand gets tired. Spiral-bound makes much more sense.

"This one's promising - thanks! Cute cover, spiral binding. Lines are a little wide, but I think it'll suit its purpose.

"But, that said, is it too cute? It's just going to hold some really bad poetry, and it would be a little cruel of me to do that to a journal worthy of more..."

I bought three tiny journals, shrinkwrapped together in plastic. Eighty pages each, thinnest of thin lines. No spirals, but a bendable cover. Plain black. Sturdy, but nondescript.

It's also the brand Hemingway used, I suppose I should note. The labels boast about the great works that have been written in similar volumes.

But I'm not overly fond of Hemingway. I like that I can bind them in a hairtie after I'm done, store it away in a bookshelf and know it's there. And others won't even notice the sliver of black...

***
I went shopping.

I bought yarn for a knit-free scarf (because I haven't re-learned to knit - yet), and wound up pawing through tangled strangs of yellow-orange, blue-green and magenta-purple for what felt like hours (no wonder cats are so fascinated).

I bought journals. I wrote. A lot.

I bought Converse canvas sneakers - low-top - because I'd been wanting a pair for ages and finally decided making myself smile was reason enough to buy them (first pair I've owned since junior high). I spent a chunk of Sunday gazing deligtedly at my feet.

I went to a bakery that offers free slices of thick bread.

I came up with a list (short) of the things I want to do when I go to Boston this weekend, when I actually have time to SPEND in Boston (unlike last month's whirlwind venture). I'm trying to figure out which makes me more nervous: the idea of braving IKEA on a Saturday (I might nix this one) or walking into Sephora determined to only buy one item (she says now...).

I ran for the first time in two weeks (thank you, cold) and, while I didn't run particularly far, had a huge grin on my face as I started to feel the endorphins kick in.

I got into long conversations about how boys are stupid and we girls are bright, savvy, brilliant, knowing creatures that prove intimidating to cowardly fellows.

I walked around in messy pigtails and oversized sunglasses, sipping an iced latte through a bright orange straw.

I fell in love with a relatively-new-band-to-me band and was finally able to play something other than the Ani that has been dominating my iPod.

I watched Josh and Donna kiss on The West Wing and hooted and hollered in delight. This was followed about 49 minutes later by grouping Josh into the "stupid boys" category.

I wrote poetry, which I've never ever written before...