April really IS the cruellest month.

Four years ago, I was in Vancouver, re-reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and falling in love with Daniel Clowes through a beat up Eight Ball compilation I borrowed from the Hastings Library and wondering how I was going to get through the summer all alone on the lonely coast.

Three years ago, I was still in Vancouver, getting high at Kits Beach and trying really hard to finish Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy. I never did get through it. I was otherwise occupied with the arduous tasks of polishing off one's stash, shipping one's belongings back across the country in the most inefficient manner possible (thanks, Canada Post. I am pretty sure you still have a pair of my Hush Puppies), and wondering what I was running away from.

Two years ago, I was in Ottawa and actually believed I might stay here. I was reading The Kite Runner and actually believed I might enjoy it. (I was also reading 26a by Diana Evans, which has since landed on my top ten dysfunctional family novels--full list forthcoming). I was pretty busy with saying I love you to the wrong people and having brunch dates that started with a friend coming over to change my locks.

One year ago, I was stranded at Dulles International Airport, reading Real Simple Magazine and discarded sections of the New York Times, willing myself not to go crazy. When I finally got home I nearly kissed the ground outside the Ottawa airport, which is a terrifying testament to my delicate state of mind. 24 hours in an airport can really change a person, man. I came back philosophical and committed to making good life choices, and then I read a bunch of self help books. Date Like A Man was not one of them, but I do intend to re-read that classic chestnut soon--its lessons, like a bottle of cheap Chardonnay, grow more dangerous with each passing year.

This year, I'm picking myself up, dusting myself off, and starting all over again. I've had a Chuck Palahniuk book sitting on my bedside table for months, as well as most of Stephen King's Dark Tower series, all on loan from someone who refuses to take them back till I get through them (proof positive that I am still saying I love you to the wrong people). I'm packing up again, but this time the move is much more organized (and in no way supported by the postal system). This part of the trip's going to be easy, I think.

I get restless in springtime. For once, this round, I can do something about my itchy feet.