"And I want to be a paperback writer".

Collars are still up at Nassau Apartment, chins tucked low, and the concept of "right now" is circling my head like an oversized eagle. The Beatles 20 Greatest Hits have been riding the crest of the popularity for quite sometime now and today's viewing of the film "Across the Universe" will not help in my inability to mix things up on my turntable. Not that I am trying to fight the sway power of the Beatles. I am merely biding my time until a translucent package containing one very special Neutral Milk Hotel record will arrive on my doorstep next week. Hello Darkness, my old friend. You know you are in an ordinary state of mind when all you do is scour the internet for cheap records that will restore one's heart like only the best medication can, instead of sleeping. And so, in my darkest hour I always head back to Neutral Milk Hotel, my best musical friends.

This week, last week, next week, never, forever. What is it about Father Winter that makes humanity want to crawl inwards? Don't get me wrong, I am forever indebted to this very season that makes it okay to pass up dance and boardgame nights in lieu of an underwear clad cross-legged position at the center of the bed with a bowl of chili in hand. Mildly concerned for the state of my well being of late, I have been making a tiny effort during daylight hours to ask around town about the general attitude towards socialization in the Winnipeg scene. Today I crept over to the University of Winnipeg to check up on a few things. First duty on the roster was to find "our" bench (where school chums used to gather last year) and verify whether or not it was still being inhabited by semi-worthy people. Check, to my delight two familiar friends greeted me with warmth and inquiry. Second point of action was to shoot the shit with my favorite Professor (Prof. Johns) and find out if all my papers from summer school had been destroyed. I never found him but I did leave an insane garbled note under his office door that will surely make him chortle in memory. Maybe not. The third event was unplanned and therefore tucked away in my brain under my "good omen" category. Literally running full speed into my cousin and dear friend James Friesen WAS a good omen. I have been coasting on his positivity for the last four hours.

After the University I traipsed to the Fyxx in the Exchange and bantered about the weather and politics to a crazed homeless gentleman. Kindly, he never chastised me for my utterly disgraceful political knowledge and instead, commented on my brand new and very suggestible hat. On the way home, I caught myself walking in the middle of the street on my block and turning onto the sidewalk only when I was passing my favorite house. It is the kind of house you want to be invited to for a dinner party, the kind with the best wine, the kind with three Christmas wreaths instead of just the standard one, the kind of house where the Matriarch leaves the bottom two feet of the door's curtain rolled up just so that the dogs can look out. One dog looked at me pathetically as I passed his two foot perspective with my head bowed to the wind. We made eye contact, and I, starved for attention I suppose held it as long as the dog would allow. I turned my head first feeling a bit defeated and foolish for maintaining eye contact with a canine. While I may be borderline crazy, I refuse to throw in the towel.

Being against the world is hard enough, but being against oneself is worse. So to any one out there who is reading this smirking or maybe bobbing their head in understanding because they too long to maintain eye contact with anyone--even a dog--then I encourage you to lift your chin and take it as it may; then turn the other cheek and flip the record.

I am sorry to anyone who has been put between a rock and a hard place of awkwardness due to my actions of late. I am on the cusp of change and my chin is slowly, painstakingly tearing itself away from the safe haven of my chest. Goodbye downcast eyes, hello minus thirty forgotton the second I step onto a dancefloor.

Let it be.

Megan.