So far so great.

I hit a pedestrian. Or, more, a pedestrian hit me.

It all sounds rather Rory Gilmore but seriously; it wasn't my fault. I was riding in the rain which already spelled trouble. Plus, I was riding through the city which- not to invoke Macbeth but here I go- spelled double trouble. My brakes had already proved practically useless when cars crossed into the bicycle lane just for kicks (oh, how I adore those little two-tonne scamps!) so I was going pretty slowly to avoid, you know, dying.

I'm coming up on Melbourne Central where the traffic lights are problematic and the pedestrians jaywalk like nobody's business. And suddenly, despite his red light and my green one, a pedestrian steps out in front of me while looking in the opposite direction. Smack! I must have been thrown neck first into this guy because shortly afterward I started coughing and feeling like I couldn't breathe. Aside from my life threatening winding, though, I was pretty worried about him. But he was still standing and as soon as I asked him if he was okay he'd asked me about five times and was still going. We just reassured each other for about thirty seconds that we were both fine, whereupon he kept walking across the road and I sat there in the rain waiting for the green light to return to me, its passionately lonely former lover.

Once we were reunited, I continued riding and let the soreness set in after the adrenaline wore off. My life is so interesting and fun.

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.