1. Music. I must divide this into two subcategories.
A. Finding it. Top 40 will never be good enough. I must dig and dig and dig... forever. Daniel Johnston, Melt-Banana, Telefon Tel Aviv, Einzerstraude Neubauten, Television, Amebix, Rhapsody, Wesley Willis, Merzbow, Pig Destroyer, Killing Joke... those are just a few of the things I scratch off the top of my head. I must find it. I can never stop. I must find more. I can never rest. I must find more. I must find more. I must find every last thing out there that's worth hearing. My quest will never end, because just when I've exhausted everything, somebody out there (including me) will make something new and novel. This may be the postmodern age where everything's just one big puked-up mess of floating signifiers from the contemporary past... but pastiche, nay, even bricolage can still lead to great new sensations.
B. Making it. I would describe what I do as improvizational outsider noise-core. I want to learn as many instruments as I can. I'm figuring out the guitar. I'm pro-level at bass. Need to get my hands on a drumset. I wish I could play every instrument in the orchestra. And all kinds of odds and ends that aren't (conventionally). I want to be like Aphex Twin and expand electro-sounds to places nobody else is capable of. It's all in my head, churning away perpetually... I only need the keys to bring it to life.
2. Women. I want one. More than anything. It drives me insane, nearly mentally murdering me. I don't fully understand why. Maybe it's just raw evolutionary constitution (agonizingly unfulfilled), or existential longing above and beyond mere hormonal mechanics. Either way, I must have one. Before I die. While I'm relatively young, I hope.
3. Building my home. I want to make a visionary environment. A postmodern wonderland. Kind of like this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palais_Ideal
4. Weapons. I could deliver a two hour lecture on Northern European swords between the years 450 and 1000 A.D.
Strangely, my academic vocation doesn't get me all that worked up. The reason I do what I do is because it's better than the alternative: a mundane "real job" that would mentally murder me. Academia is the earthly salvation that preserves my fragile psychological well-being. Though I tell you what, a trust fund of a few million dollars would be even better! Fat chance of that ever coming my way; my richest relative's job involves pulling levers on a machine that could kill fifty workmen with one misstep. Though academia is my earthly salvation, it is not my cosmic aspiration.