The ancients used to think our universe was made up of four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. (And according to The Fifth Element, they also thought there was a disgustingly skinny model with Raggedy Ann hair whose overblown compatriots were decked out in neon-coloured rubberwear.) It seems a little odd to think that at one time the world was considered a simple conglomerate of four things alone. And wouldn't it be sort of nice if it actually was? After all, just as Bubbles has more than the usual Powerpuff share of sugar, I'd certainly be able to attest to being made up of more than my share of water in the ancient-elements game. When I was small, I was always the first one in the pool or ocean, no matter how cold. And I'd quite happily stay there in the water too, floating about or bodysurfing in or dipping down to touch the bottom or pretend -- as all little girls did and still do -- to be a mermaid, always until the tips of my small-person fingers wrinkled past recognition. All of us are drawn to one element or another, I think. The green mountains, the call of the open breeze, the warm sun. Or the water. I think needing nature in this way is part of our humanity. I also think it's pretty much the nicest part. And who knows, maybe it has something to do with those ancient philosophers and their flawed elemental universe theories.

But really, what's stranger? Now it's a bunch of white-coated scientists gazing into tubes in a universe made up of atomic dots, and then it was a bunch of toga-clad beardies gazing between ionic columns in a universe made up of The Easy Four. Right vs. wrong, sure. But the times, they ain't a-changin' so very much.

Change is a funny thing. Today, looking back on how much change has affected my life over these collegiate years, I found myself introspecting (yeah, call it a new word) on what hasn't changed very much at all. I'm still ridiculously tall. I just don't notice it as much. I'm still ridiculously queasy over spiders. I just have nobody around to smoosh them for me. I'm still somewhat nervous around people. I just don't care all that much about being around them. In fact, it was pretty hard to think about ways I haven't changed in the last four years, because changes have been so frequent and so subtle, and so . . . numerous, really.

In fact, the only thing I could think of that hasn't changed at all comes in a bottle: Mure et Musc, by L'Artisan. The same perfume still sits upon my shelf, because it still smells like me -- or at least, like what I mean to be. It is pure, clean, a wild blackberry mist with a hint of spice. And also, I keep it around because when I met a nice boy I once dated for breakfast a few years ago, he hugged me and said, "Hey, good." And I said, "What are you talking about?" And he said, "You still smell like Christa."

And now that I've gone all introspecty, I do believe that's really one of the nicest compliments ever. Of course, when you get so few compliments in your daily life, I guess you hold on to the ones you enjoy all the more fiercely. And you go on with the changing.

Everyone's thought about what it might be like to have superpowers, right? Come on. You know you've wished you could fly around in the sky, or get super-duper strength whenever you turn a bizarre shade of orange, or shoot laser beams out of your knees. Maybe you just wished to be rich and buy a lot of gadgets and have a dark past that has made you a very poor evaluator of your own judicial reponsibilities. You know, like Bill Gates.

But I'll bet you never thought about all the other people who imagined how much better and more interesting life would be if some of us had superpowers. Think of it: worldwide, thousands of people could soar around in the air, alternately getting caught in the engines of innumerable aircraft and eventually being forced to have their purses searched before every self take-off. Entire cities of people would swing between various skyscrapers on disgustingly sticky ropes emanating from their limbs, all gradually being sued by The Window-Washers Union and The Heap Big Corporation for Inner-City Transport. And think of the magazines: "Red Laser Beams Out, Telepathy In!" "How to Tell if Your All-Important Man is a Superhero or a Superzero!" "You've Gotta Lose Forty Before You Even Attempt to Fit Into that Molded Leather Suit!"

Kinda makes this civilian's life look a little better. By day, that is.

Did you ever notice how all the high school kids on television always had a particular hang-out spot of choice? It was usually some cheesy place to eat, too, like a diner. If the show was made in the eighties, the kids might have also hung out at the mall, or a record store in the mall. If the show was filmed in the nineties, the hang-out could also have been various under-eighteen clubs or coffee shops. Whatever the spot was, it was frequented constantly by all the cool kids and major show characters, or by all the kids trying to be cool or be a major show character. And then usually during some low point in the series, some wanton executive-type threatened to close down the hangout spot, and all the kids had to band together to save their favorite diner and its unusually friendly, sassy, cranky, or mentally-freakish owner.

Of course, nobody in the entire history of real-life high school ever had a hang-out spot. I certainly didn't. Nor did anyone ever utter the conversation, "Hey man, you gonna be at The Pear Stem later?" "Where else, dude?" "Well, then order me a burger, man, and tell my crimp-haired girl of the week I'll be there in a sec! Cowabunga!" If anybody ever did utter that conversation in real life, they ought to be eliminated both silently and immediately.

But I don't really consider the fictional hang-out spot to be a great loss. I'm more upset that we never had any of those tall lockers.

Winos are amusing. For example, my French class is practically full of them. Since it's full of mostly older folks, though, I suppose the whole wino thing ought to be a little expected -- seeing as your (stereo)typical college-age riff-raff mostly focuses what little energy it has on booze just for the sake of booze. (As in, "Hey, I'm free to drink now, so it's time to play with alcohol like it's some kind of game! Alcohol is my Parcheesi! And never mind about tomorrow morning, 'cause I've got my good friend The Toilet! Ha ha, ha! Booze it up! Yeeeeedoggies!") Instead, winos seem to be focused on taste. On taste, and who has taste, and most importantly, who doesn't have taste. The one thing I do respect about winos, though, is their commitment to appearing intellectual and elegant. And to appear intellectual and elegant while still boozing it up, well, that just takes dedication. I once heard a conversation between two winos mocking those who brought some brand called Charles Schwab to parties. And they suggested I try something called German Riesling someday, and that I should never, ever drink something called White Zinfandel.

And I, who have never been a fond pal of The Toilet, smiled and nodded and tripped merrily home to write about the whole lot of them. Gotta grab your smallish victories where you may.

Oh, and AW looks new today. About time for a blast-off, no?