You just might need dynamite.

Been busy lately. Avoiding full sentences. Avoiding lots of stuff. But no longer.

I'm here. Present. Reporting for duty. Punching in. Whatever.

Every weekend has brought another party or three, which is loverly but sometimes one wants to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, unpause the DVD player and continue watching a Judy Garland movie. Lame? Perhaps, but it's me, it's what I do, and I miss it. I haven't been reading much lately, either, which sucks because I had so many big plans. I still have an unopened copy of Sylvia Plath's journals sitting beside my bed (bigger than a bible and something I'm far more likely to worship). And I never write anymore. Not poems, not autobiographical snippets, not short stories, nothing. This isn't exactly a ginormous loss to the world, I know, but it did wonders for my sanity. Online visits are fewer and fewer for me. I miss anyone I don't have a tutorial with or sit with at lunchtimes. Cooking doesn't seem to be happening; I ate a meal out of a packet the other day (*shudder* ...although it was quite alright as far as Indian food goes).

I'm being more who people want me to be; my family are stunned but ecstatic when I come home from a night out partying and drinking, friends are amused and intrigued by my newfound social life, I have more in common with people I meet. And yet... I don't feel like me. And in weird ways it shows. I don't go out at night; I have nothing to wear to clubs and parties. I don't go out to eat; I sit and drink tea or water and then grab a burger on the way home. I start talking excitedly with people about University and TV shows when I should be ordering a drink.

And I miss my place on the couch, and my mug, and my movie. And yet I don't return to them. Someone once called me an enigma. I wonder, were Winston Churchill to observe me, what he would say.