5:18 PM

Get a life, Smith.

FIGURATIVELY "UNTITLED."

I've not been in such a contemplative mood for weeks. Perhaps years, or at least months have passed since I've felt the withdrawn stab of legitimate intellectual thought. At least, to this degree. It's heightened, and not due to some waggling emotional fiber hidden within, not as a result of tragedy or humanistic need to substantiate my life from the supposed twenty-two thousand others who no longer share my binding livelihood on this great planet earth.
No. I'm far too self-absorbed for that.
And so, I ponder, what shall be my legacy to the world? Will I decipher some distinct purpose or being before I grasp mortality by its reins, or am I destined to live life as most do, with both eyes closed to the greater realm of possibility? Do I have such distinct calling? Or is that just the indignant greed talking?
(-) I've stopped sleeping like I used to. I'm sure it's merely transitional, but I can't rest for more than a few hours at a time, and when I wake, it's as though I'm panicked, or even frightened. Not mentally, mind you, but physically. And I've stopped retaining dreams altogether. I feel as though brackets of time are merely stolen from my consciousness, never to be supplemented or returned to me. Just taken. My breathing is far from improving, and that can only be signs of my left lung taking out its vengeful vendetta against medicinal treatment at large. I don't even want to have to think about it at this point.
(+/-) I've spent eighteen years of life without a romantic relationship of any sort. In my book, that's not only tolerable; it's the only righteous thing to do. Yet, in short, I've been ushered into thinking that perhaps it's near time for me to find someone to bond with for at least the short period of time between now and the beginning of my college career. Intimacy of any sort is supposed to increase a person's vitality, so why not toy with it, at least as an experiment for the Bettering Of Kelley? I have my doubts, and the likelihood of finding anyone to become involved with merely furthers my insecurities, but I'll leave that to chance and happenstance to deal with.
(+) I've decided I'm going to apply to Loyola in New Orleans. I wasn't even considering it as a possibility, but something deep and painfully digging is calling me in that direction. I'm not sure why, and I don't know how, but there's no application fee, so it's settled.
I continue to find myself in an odd and eerie state looming between depression and what I'd like to describe as madness. It's a bitter form of creative thought I wish I could harness and utilize, yet it evades me as even these words do. I struggle to make syntactical sense, let alone construct something of beauty or grace. And there it sits, elusive and just beyond my powerful, hungry grasp. I wish, dear God, I could step out and exude the verbal magnitude I know I must be capable of, but I fear I'll never reach such heights of majesty. And so I remain, bitter and eternally remorseful of what I'll never truly posses: the ability to write.
Gasp. It's certainly time to go to bed. Even if I'll find myself bitter and restless in a few hours. Hopefully, I'll move far from this state of mind by morning, but I'm not truly certain of anything at this point.
'Night.

TORRID, I LOVE YOU.

What can I say?
I'm a sucker for a Day-After sale.
I think I cleared out the store of anything worth buying...And I'm okay with that.
Tomorrow (later today) should bring me in a homeward direction with homework, applications, and friends to follow.
[Editor's Note: It certainly doesn't feel as though I have an entire week left of vacation. In fact, I feel more pressed for time in my remaining seven days than I normally feel in the midst of a hectic and compact weekend. I guess that's just the irony of time.]

AND TO THINK I WAS CURSED BY A BUDDHIST MONK ON HIS VERY SPECIAL PILGRIMAGE.

December 24th, 9:37 PM, Eastern Standard time.
From here on in, I write without...RENT.
What a glorious Christmas Eve this has been so far. Mass was wonderful, luminaries suck, and I'm high on my cloud of glory: the definite reality of The Phantom Of The Opera at TPAC tomorrow, and the possibility (Read: Reality) of Patrick Wilson in all his wimpish glory...Ahh.
It's almost too much for one girl.
But I'll contain myself into the evening and through tomorrow. For, at some point, I'll have to wake up from vacation and the reality of happiness, into a begrudging reality of pain and unfeeling isolation.
But that's later.

There's only us, there's only this...
No day but today.

Thanks, Larson.

HAVE A PRE-DETERMINED CHRISTMAS.

I have yet to behold the splendor of a holiday, and I'm not entirely eager in anticipation.
I am ready to nap. But that's a story of higher caliber for a more enlightened mind-frame. Going on...
Tomorrow will be, by calendar date, "Christmas Eve." I'm rather sure I take for granted the celestial prominence associated with such an occasion, but it's not my intolerance or indifference I'm concerned about. My breeding futility focuses around something much simpler, and much more provocative in my own mind:
What have I wasted the last year on? I don't honestly remember anything that's happened in the last three-hundred, sixty-five (or "-six," as it's a leap year) days of mortal bliss. And does that strike me as painful, indulgent, insensitive, and plain corrupt?
Yes. Yes it does.
I can handle corrupt and insensitive and so on, but I have to hold myself accountable for something in this deity-forsaken existence. What shall it be, I ask?
Coming Soon: Kelley's Steps for Change in the Midst of Heated Indifference.

THAT'S SOME SWEET VACATION, DUDE.

Hells yeah.
I'm so very in the mood for rest and relaxation; conversely, I want to leap up and run, just for the sheer capacity to do so.
It's almost finished.
This year is so close to completion, I can feel is leaning against me like a bad case of frotteurism. And still, so much is yet to reach completion. I have to send out application letters, endorsements of my personal value, and sealed transcripts.
Capital F-U-N!
My mental capacity is far beyond its normal reaches, and I can feel the weight of dragging lobes, damaged by excessive work in the last six months. Hopefully, these next two weeks will prove successful in grinding all of that toned grey matter into a healthy, Napoleon Dynamite-ish sludge.
Ehh...I'm going to relax for a few minutes. Then, it's off to my lazing about.

HIGHLIGHT REELS FOR DECEMBER 15TH, 2004.

If I have learned anything in the past week, it has been horribly surpassed by these stunning revelations:
-I am surrounded by some of the greatest individuals ever to walk the earth.
-The opposing team is close by.
-Elise can do anything she puts her mind to- like Duke University. GO Blue Devils! (And Elise!)
-Paul Farmer's recommendation letter for me would have to include the statement "I-Robot was a shared experience with Kelley that I will never forget, as we established the correlation between Les Miserables and Will Smith."
-Hanukkah songs are better when sung in rounds.
-A re-write is never a re-write until it is a re-write re-write re-write.
-The only real question is, what is the tragic vision of my existence in relation to my life as a whole?
-Officer Moore is my friend.
-The iPod holds a lot more music than I would have previously assumed. Really.
-Sleep, although hard to get, is a highly underrated thing.
-I'm definitely not a lesbian. Contrary to popular belief, that is.
-Air-conditioner "cold" is absolutely nothing compared to real "cold."
Finally (and of the most dire importance):
-I need a Barry Manilow hoodie for Christmas, Festivus, Kwanzaa, or any other holiday you'd like to throw in. I'm not picky.

RATIONALITY.

Why are hurt, immaturity, and cruelty the only things human beings truly master at?
I don't think I've ever been brought to tears by a rumor, and I'm damned if I start now.
They can say whatever cruel things they want to about me, but why bring them into this? How do the passive survive in this world, constantly trampled and beaten by the incapable hands of ogress and thieves, unaccustomed to civilization and dignity. Compassion is so far from their grasp, it makes me ill.
I may be tough, but I am fair, and hardly inhumane.
You, dearest offenders, fail to rank as "human."
Good evening, dishonest world.

DON KNOTTS MUST BE CRYING.

Dubya, The Movie.
It outlines (with great magnitude and glory):
-Family Values
-The Lost Years
-The War President
-The Hunt For Bin Laden
-The Hunt For WMD
-Tax Relief
-Compassionate Conservatism

A landmark achievement by all means, but a scratch on the fair record of such a glorious comedian.

WEEBLES WOBBLE.

Here I sit, ready to topple, yet horrendously sturdy.
Placid.
Obtrusive.
Hardly exclusive.
Infuriated/Invigorated.
Undesirably situated. How?
Unknown; still incredibly unknown.
Look. A bloody effing pyramid scam entry.
[Editor's Note: I had to add in "effing" to make the whole thing work out. Otherwise, the entry would have been a waste of your time. Obviously, now, it is not.]

EVEN MASTERCARD DOESN'T MAKE ME SMILE AS MUCH AS PREVIOUSLY ASSUMED.

Regardless of my status as a "check card" carrying member of society, I feel far from economically productive.
Actually, "failure as a human being" might more adequately describe my state of mind.
I feel as a gum-spattered shoe must feel. Ignorant. Divergent. Unclean. And most importantly, alone. Hideous, and alone.
Tell me: what provokes these despondent moods in my multi-faceted hemispheres? Is it pain? Fear? A genuine desire to rip apart whatever maladjusted humanity lurks within me?
If only I knew. For then, I could make fun of the problem so as to divert attention from myself onto other human beings in the midst of suffering. Ha. What blissful joy I bring to the world.
But, instead, I allow it to sit there, laughing, lurking, and of course, tormenting, as all vile (and therefore productive) distractions do. It's their job. And who am I to keep them from their work?
That's right. You guessed it- nobody.
Full of mocking and far from the object of idolatry, the life of one so insistent upon strength and self-provoked isolation will remain forever circular in content- impacting, halted, singular, detrimental, and finally, positively meaningless- until it is taken from them, whether willfully or by brutal force.
And that, Cynthia Pitman, is the tragic vision of my existence.

WHAT DOES KELLEY HAVE THAT YOU, POOR SPECIMEN, DO NOT?

An iPod named Bono?
Precisely.
As the Apple God intended, I first downloaded and listened to "Vertigo," slowly making my way through my library of greatness, and finally, the time had reached 1:03 AM.
It was time to sleep.
But not even in sleep did I forget about its sleek outer shell, that bright backlight, and it's glorious game of "musical trivia."
Yes, dear reader, I am content.
And so is Bono.

NO GOOD DEED GOES RE-FURBISHED.

Now, tell me why Stephen Schwartz couldn't write something interesting like that...
It's rather late, as I'm well aware of, and I couldn't care less. Tomorrow should be a mindless, hazy day as far as I'm concerned. And far be it for life to get in my way, lest it shall be trampled under my mighty hoof.
Yes, I said hoof. Laugh. Get over it.
Moving on.
If Cynthia demands yet another essay revision, I shall rip my fingernails out, pleading insanity and that my keyboard is too painful to look at. She'll just demand that I dictate all future papers, but I'll just show her my bloody, stumpy masses deemed "digits" and evoke all kinds of spiteful sympathy. And then, she'll write me up. And I'll complain to Frank, and he'll complain to Deborah, and I couldn't stop name-dropping if I tried.
Sorry.
I must admit, however, I will be giddy as a clam by the end of December. It will be an ultimately useful change to get out of the habit of school and into the habit of "me time," as well as applying to colleges and watching rejection letter after rejection letter pile in.
I'm writing in a manner most crapfully this evening. I can't even find humor in my spitefully disgusting attempts at grammatical wit. Gross. Someone take me out to pasture and shoot, for I've no other purpose on this earth but to drone on, endlessly and unceasingly about positively nothing.
Alright. Three more sentences about Barbara Kingsolver and her decrepit team of Congolese whores--I mean, Southern Baptist missionaries--and I'll move in a bed-ward direction.
Maybe.

IN THE NAME OF...BONO.

Bombarded by Instant Messages From the Realm of College, I sit, paranoid and gasping for breath.
Applications. Oh, spittle; how I hate applications.
Gracious Lord On High, Toss Me A Peanut Brittle, and a Common App.
Oh, Common App. I love you.

VACUOUS, SAYS THE COLLEGE BOARD.

I hope they deem my essay vacuous.
That would make my day.
Take a peek---
Ooh. Better yet, don't. It's pretty crappy in its infant stages, and speaks directly to the idiotic, internet mind within each of us.
Ehh, it's far too late in the evening to give an accurate depiction of my progress on the Essay From Hell.
But I'll tell you one thing- I use the word triumvirate. In context.
Ha!

CASSIUS LOVES YOU.

Okay. So, maybe he doesn't, because I'm Brutus, and I can only speak for myself.
But as I type and re-type and re-type and re-type my AP Literature essay for the Pitman of Death, I must relay the fact that Julius Caesar is my most loathed enemy on top of anything in the universe.
That's right. You heard me, Bill.
But that's okay, because you're dead, Bill. And as far as I'm concerned, that means that you're restricted from writing an equally dreadful sequel.
Or so I'd assume.

REGISTRATION-R-US.

How grammatically satanic...
It's only 9:30, and we're hiding out, waiting for District registration to begin.
FUN.
Chaz and I get to run around like dying animals and post up our troupe cards, and I must say, I could not be more excited.
A Vice President doesn't have much more responsibility than that...
And I'm milking that responsibility for all it's worth, baby.

HOW TO RAISE A CHILD, TAKE TWO.

And, I romp in my thirty-eight seconds of glory...
Romp. Romp. Romp.
Romp. Romp.
Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp.
Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp.

Okay. I'm good now.

THE DRIVE OF SHAME.

Was I upset this afternoon?
Duh.
I was, however, gratified that Backel had the courage to at least justify in person what she wasn't willing to disclose earlier. Not that it didn't pang with hurt to hear, but it made the post-blow a bit cushioned.
I was angry. I became distressed. Not to tears, but close enough to embarrass myself writing about it.
Alright. To tears.
And I'm sitting in the glaring Longwood sunlight, blinded by a combination of my own insecurities and that radiant ball in the sky, when I hear an unassuming chorus float through my stereo system and consequently, my enraged thoughts:

It's disgusting
Their priorities:
How we're entrusting them
With authority.

What kind of disgraceful Vice President am I? Not only will we be adding so many to our ranks this spring, but I can honestly (and boastfully) say that I contributed to that stockpile. I've encouraged that growth, fostered it, picked out its musical events, and given it a preemptive Superior rating.

I welcome my family new members, holding capacities I would love to share in, but would never fully appreciate myself. But she will. And if nothing else, that seems to mean that she deserves it so much more than I ever would.

And I realized, basking in the glow of a far more superior light, that my job is to be the person who lives out the reality of those last two sentences, not with aggressiveness or bitterness, but with the genuine and warm embrace of a "mother hen."
A "beautiful mother hen," mind you.

WOULDN'T IT BE LOVERLY?

I keep running back to pages already turned in my life.
Dare I stare back, longingly, at words already deemed blasphemous? Am I too good for that? Not good enough?
Seriously. Rank me, O Futile Existence. I dare you.
And here I go, droning mindlessly like the rest of them.
There. I said it.
Relationships are stupid. Love is pointless. Investing yourself in another human being is only the square root of evil, if not simply disaster.
People are yucky. Period.

GOBBLE.

Here's to a relatively "festive" Thanksgiving on all ends: plenty of turkey, Kelley's mushroom gravy (which Kelley oh-so-kindly refuses to eat, as she despises gravy), significantly more than a tiny bit of smoked fish, Smith family Irish potato dressing, and best of all, sleeping in random places at random instants throughout the day.
Thank you, chemically-exhausting bird.
And as the week lurches forward like an over-fed in-law, so too comes the busiest day in shopping history, a day when I browse the mall, watching bumbling idiots (parents) tripping over their beloved, whiny, smelly infants, trying desperately to appease them without letting them know exactly what is being bought in their honour. Gone are the days when Tickle-Me-Elmo and Furbies were the rage: what new, destructive, and ever-encompassing fad item will tomorrow bring?
My guess- An eerie combination of Barbie and heroin, in that order.
Alright. The hour approaches at which time I must sleep legitimately and for over five minutes.
And remember:
Custard Creme Pie < Pumpkin Pie. Easily.

SEAN CAMPBELL IS MY DEMIGOD.

What's the rate of natural increase in the Marshall Islands?
3.70%
Yeah, baby.
Oh, as if anyone on the planet besides PRB.ORG gives a flying flip.

"Just looking at national fertility rates. Yep. Ol' fertile, fertile, fertile."-Sean Campbell

Say something, Aly:
I like Jeffrey as a crab. He's one hot sea creature. You know how we crustacians do.

Thanks, Aly.

ROUGH AND TUMBLE EVENING.

Quite possibly, today was an agonizing day.
-I'm fighting with someone I have too much respect to fight with. I don't think they even realize that we're fighting, which just makes matters all the more delicious.
-Seussical. Woot.
-My heart hurts in too many places to count. Breathing is taking the utmost effort.
-I cried in front of someone I'd never dream of showing intimacy towards. (And that, by far, was the most relieving portion of my existence today.)
It doesn't really matter what's going on (as far as specifics will lead), but I will be immensely glad to begin production tomorrow with a bang. I desperately hope that everything will fly according to plan, and I have a sincere confidence in our ensemble at large.
Plus, I'm under contract not to say anything destructive or demeaning.
So, mum.
I need to take twenty minutes and sit down to a logical, rational conversation with "Little Miss Last Night," which will, hopefully, lead not only to a peaceful solution of some sort, but to a raging cry of glee ensuing from my pursed and overly-rouged lips.
One can only hope.

SENIOR LUNCH.

Fourth period at Dellinger's house.
The Birdcage, a la Kelley.
Pizza, a la Pizza Hut.
General mayhem provided by other major sponsors and viewers like you.
Thanks.

DISAPPOINTED, YET TO NO AVAIL.

Please. Fail me as a human being.
Destroy whatever hopes and dreams I've stored within you, the very core of my faith in humanity and/or the population at large, as they amount to very little but my naive opinions. Not that my opinions matter, obviously.
I believe in you, and this is what you hand me?
Kelley stands on the sidelines of life, genuinely cheering for her team to come out victorious; but instead, her standing is deluded, disgraced, and utterly crushed. Arrogance? Is that the form your actions take? Or is it stupidity? Eager longing to belong? I feel that as well, yet somehow manage to contain my insecurities, to find real ways of expressing myself as a human being.
But this? This is what you degrade yourself to? Degrade me to, for I stood behind you and still remain with my palms facing forward, bracing for your eventual and guaranteed fall.
I take so little pity in you now.
It seems the world has left me behind, chasing after brighter and better ideals, and attacking with the same dull points. You do not captivate me any longer. Instead, you stand as a beacon of that which I vow never to set myself along side, that which has become increasingly more pungent with each proverbial whiff.
You have failed me in more ways than you will ever conceive, although your conception at large may prove far more generous than even you could handle.
Enjoy the progression that your life seeks.
Or the lack thereof.
Take great pleasure in that which you will someday become.
Or fail to be.
Invest yourselves even further in the things that elevate you to this higher level of being.
I hope they stand firm to support you; I must refrain from doing so.
From this point forward, you stand on your own.
I've failed you, it seems.

ABSENT.

I'll refrain from trying to make up and/or explain for my lack of posting over the past weeks...
Blame it on Paul. Or Cynthia. They want me to get into college, those silly geese.
Actually, I can make a rather concise listing of the things most detrimental towards my Blogger posting over the previous months, including (but not limited to):
-Seuss.
-Seuss.
-Seuss.
-Seuss.
-Seu-u-uss.
Ha! That's ridiculously overstated! It must be, for me to post it five times! How silly!
Or truthful. Good Lord of Musical Theatre, please kill this poor creation of yours to spare the theatrical audience at large.
Not that our production is awful. It could be entirely worse, and I know how destructive a show can be for an audience to sit through. It's the score, the consistent repetition of a few fun chords and refrains, and the lofty, "Seussian" book.
Aggh.
[Editor's Note: If you've yet to visit AccuBroadway.com, please do so before the rest of the world realizes what a miserable failure you are. Come on, people- they have a "Finales" sub-category. What kind of miserable doofus do you have to be to pass up an internet music library like that?]
Tomorrow begins the grueling yet intensely enjoyable process we call preview, and I could not contain within me further excitement beyond that which is bursting from within me. It shall be absolutely destructive towards my portion of the actual show, as Byron and I perform our entire thirty-eight second Song Of Death.
Enough about Seussical.

CONCESSION SPEECH (THE END OF DEMOCRACY AS WE KNOW IT).

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much. You just have no idea how warming and how generous that welcome is, your love is, your affection, and I'm gratified by it. I'm sorry that we got here a little bit late and a bit short.

Earlier today, I spoke to President Bush, and I offered him and Laura our congratulations on their victory. We had a good conversation and we talked about the danger of division in our country and the need – the desperate need – for unity, for finding the common ground, coming together. Today, I hope that we can begin the healing. In America it is vital that every vote count, and that every vote be counted. But the outcome should be decided by voters, not a protracted legal process.

I would not give up this fight if there was a chance that we would prevail. But it is now clear that even when all the provisional ballots are counted, which they will be, there won't be enough outstanding votes for us to be able to win Ohio. And therefore, we can not win this election.

My friends, it was here that we began our campaign for the presidency. And all we had was hope and a vision for a better America. It was a privilege and a gift to spend two years traveling this country, coming to know so many of you. I wish that I could just wrap you in my arms and embrace each and every one of you individually all across this nation. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Audience member: We still got your back!

Thank you, man. And I assure you – you watch – I'll still have yours.

I will always be particularly grateful to the colleague that you just heard from who became my partner, my very close friend, an extraordinary leader, John Edwards. And I thank him for everything he did. John and I would be the first to tell you that we owe so much to our families. They're here with us today. They were with us every single step of the way. They sustained us. They went out on their own and they multiplied our campaign, all across this country.

No one did this more with grace and with courage and candor. For that, I love than my wife, Teresa. And I thank her. Thank you. And our children were there every single step of the way. It was unbelievable. Vanessa, Alex, Chris, Andre and John, from my family, and Elizabeth Edwards who is so remarkable and so strong and so smart. And Johnny and Cate who went out there on her own just like my daughters did. And also Emma Claire and Jack who were up beyond their bedtime last night, like a lot of us.

I want to thank my crewmates and my friends from 35 years ago. That great ‘band of brothers’ who crisscrossed this country on my behalf through 2004. Thank you. They had the courage to speak the truth back then, and they spoke it again this year, and for that, I will forever be grateful.

And thanks also as I look around here to friends and family of a lifetime. Some from college, friends made all across the years, and then all across the miles of this campaign. You are so special. You brought the gift of your passion for our country and the possibilities of change, and that will stay with us, and with this country forever.

Thanks to Democrats and Republicans and independents who stood with us, and everyone who voted no matter who their candidate was.

And thanks to my absolutely unbelievable, dedicated staff, led by a wonderful campaign manager Mary Beth Cahill, who did an extraordinary job. There's so much written about campaigns, and there's so much that Americans never get to see. I wish they could all spend a day on a campaign and see how hard these folks work to make America better. It is its own unbelievable contribution to our democracy, and it's a gift to everybody. But especially to me. And I'm grateful to each and every one of you, and I thank your families, and I thank you for the sacrifices you've made.

And to all the volunteers, all across this country who gave so much of themselves. You know, thanks to William Field, a six-year-old who collected $680, a quarter and a dollar at a time selling bracelets during the summer to help change America. Thanks to Michael Benson from Florida who I spied in a rope line holding a container of money, and turned out he raided his piggy bank and wanted to contribute. And thanks to Alana Wexler who is 11 years old and started kids for Kerry all across our country. I think of the brigades of students and people, young and old, who took time to travel, time off from work, their own vacation time to work in states far and wide. They braved the hot days of summer and the cold days of the fall and the winter to knock on doors because they were determined to open the doors of opportunity to all Americans. They worked their hearts out, and I wish… you don't know how much they, could have brought this race home for you for them, and I say to them now, don't lose faith.

What you did made a difference, and building on itself -- building on itself, we go on to make a difference another day. I promise you, that time will come. The time will come, the election will come when your work and your ballots will change the world, and it's worth fighting for.

I want to especially say to the American people in this journey, you have given me honor and the gift of listening and learning from you. I have visited your homes. I have visited your churches. I've visited your union halls. I've heard your stories, I know your struggles, I know your hopes. They're part of me now, and I will never forget you, and I'll never stop fighting for you.

You may not understand completely in what ways, but it is true when I say to you that you have taught me and you've tested me and you've lifted me up, and you made me stronger, I did my best to express my vision and my hopes for America. We worked hard, and we fought hard, and I wish that things had turned out a little differently.

But in an American election, there are no losers, because whether or not our candidates are successful, the next morning we all wake up as Americans. And that -- that is the greatest privilege and the most remarkable good fortune that can come to us on earth.

With that gift also comes obligation. We are required now to work together for the good of our country. In the days ahead, we must find common cause. We must join in common effort without remorse or recrimination, without anger or rancor. America is in need of unity and longing for a larger measure of compassion.

I hope President Bush will advance those values in the coming years. I pledge to do my part to try to bridge the partisan divide. I know this is a difficult time for my supporters, but I ask them, all of you, to join me in doing that.

Now, more than ever, with our soldiers in harm's way, we must stand together and succeed in Iraq and win the war on terror. I will also do everything in my power to ensure that my party, a proud Democratic Party, stands true to our best hopes and ideals.

I believe that what we started in this campaign will not end here. And I know our fight goes on to put America back to work and make our economy a great engine of job growth. Our fight goes on to make affordable health care an accessible right for all Americans, not a privilege. Our fight goes on to protect the environment, to achieve equality, to push the frontiers of science and discovery, and to restore America's reputation in the world. I believe that all of this will happen -- and sooner than we may think -- because we're America. And America always moves forward.

I've been honored to represent the citizens of this commonwealth in the United States Senate now for 20 years. And I pledge to them that in the years ahead, I'm going to fight on for the people and for the principles that I've learned and lived with here in Massachusetts.

I'm proud of what we stood for in this campaign, and of what we accomplished. When we began, no one thought it was possible to even make this a close race. But we stood for real change, change that would make a real difference in the life of our nation, the lives of our families. And we defined that choice to America.

I'll never forget the wonderful people who came to our rallies, who stood in our rope lines, who put their hopes in our hands, who invested in each and every one of us. I saw in them the truth that America is not only great, but it is good.

So here -- so with a grateful heart -- I leave this campaign with a prayer that has even greater meaning to me now that I've come to know our vast country so much better. Thanks to all of you and what a privilege it has been. And that prayer is very simple: God bless America. Thank you.

KELLEY HAS DSL.

Does that imply that I'd take the time to enjoy it?
Well, I have been stuck on AccuBroadway.com.
But that's a given.
I've been granted a whole new appreciation for Stephen Sondheim since returning from New York. I can't say I understand why, but his music is reaching me in a way it never had...
So much for being a "butch theatre" girl.
After all, "that's what it's really about, isn't it?"
Time to go hit myself in the head.

THERE'S A FINE, FINE LINE.

Solo musical, anyone? (I've been trying to convince Backel not to have anyone else sing it, never once revealing that I, myself, earnestly seek to do it for Districts.)
This has been the most exhausting week since Alexander the Great liked women.
I have no stamina, yet I keep typing.
I don't feel the need to rehash my New York trip for the world to read, seeing as I'm the only one who reads this, and, well, I was there.
Too bad. It would have made a nice story.
Oh, well.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT POST THIS IS; LA, LA, LA, LA, LA.

It's something from New York. Beyond that, I have no ideas.

UNTITLED AUDIO POST, LOSER.

I'M JANET RENO, AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE.

I'll me making the most minor of diversions this weekend...
It's off to New York for I!
Tee hee!
Not only am I lucky enough to finally bask in the glow of Nathan Lane, God Of All Things Musical And Therefore Holy, but I will catch his final performance in The Frogs.
Sunday...Egad; I can hardly wait.
[Editor's Note: My ranting and raving, especially over Mr. Lane, would be of a much rowdier nature if it weren't for the fact that I've yet to sleep and/or participate normally as a human being this week. I'm exhausted, yet overly giddy, and truly excited over the coming week.]
[Editor's Note: And Roger Bart. Oh, gracious Lord, let us not forget Roger Bart.]
I promise to be of a much more excited demeanor as the hours roll past, and furthermore, I hope to discontinue this lag in posting. It's simply been ages since I've taken the time to sit down and write, let alone stop and think, beyond breathing, in its infinite power and glory.
I will AudioBlog, because I have Nationwide long-distance after seven.
Final note:
Nathan,
Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, break every freaking bone in your body.
And it better be an amazing Broadway show, because it's the only one I can afford to attend.

CLUB 8O'S.

How creative our Student Government Association is!
May they rot in hell...Except for the cute ones.
I have no deafening sighs of protest running through my mind when I realize that I will not attend my Senior year Homecoming dance. It's an entirely frivolous waste of my time, and I hardly prefer frantic dress shopping over life as a miserable, cat-woman-spinster, but not in the cool, Halle Berry-wearing-tights, sense.
In fact, I so overly prefer this style of living that I have decided to spend the rest of my existence in solitude. Pitman says that it's healthy. What could be more inviting than enumerated hours all at my leisure, discounted argumentation, as I would be sheltered from the rest of the fragile and moronic populace, and wholly developmental growth time, in the sense that I could take my weary hours of freedom and hone viable, important talents, such as keyboarding or telekinesis.
Your mouse is floating in the air right now, isn't it?
Eh, merde.
I wanted to go. Just a little bit, but still...
Ahh. I'll rehash all of these unbridled mental incompetencies at a later date, possibly lying on a couch in a session of over-priced therapy.
As long as I'm not paying for it.

THE NATURE OF STUBBORN.

I am, by nature, a belligerent individual.
"Duh," say the all the citizens of this vast universe.
If, as in some cases, it is absolutely necessary or more productive to look past this trait, I do so.
I cannot understand individuals who find themselves incapable of stepping back when a situation has reached a peak of heightened disorder in which the climax of the scenario threatens to explode at sub-normal degrees.
Confrontation is truly my strongest element.
How delightful life will be when I've no one to reside with but myself and maybe some other subordinate companion. (Not that they'll think they're subordinate, but we all know who will wear the figurative pants in my relationships.)
I need to relax. Meditate. Gather my center of energy into one gigantic, flaming ball of positive-yet-radioactive power.
Ahh. Radioactive argumentation- It's a dream, but a nice dream.
Perhaps it would be better to strive against procreation on my part. I'm pretty twisted.

IMPENETRABLY EXHAUSTED? THIS BLOG THINKS SO.

I can't even bother typing.
So exhausted.
The end.
Goodnight.

RASKOLNIKOV, YOU LUNATIC.

I actually miss reading Crime And Punishment.
Q: How disgustingly pathetic have I become?
A: Relatively pathetic, still working on disgusting.
I have this desperate desire for something uncomfortable and unpredicted to pop up into my life. Immediately. I need drastic change- it's the only thing that will wake me up, I fear. And I'm unsure of precisely what I'm striving for.
That's the petrifying part.
I have not the willpower to continue. My head aches beyond all belief, and I feel I may not be able to pull myself out of bed tomorrow. Time to rest.
Sweet dreams, Svid.

WE'RE WHOS, HERE. WE'RE ALL WHOS HERE: SMALLER THAN THE EYE CAN SEE.

You best be believing.
The consistent lack of Seussical cast rehearsals is starting to drain upon my mental facilities: we have nine weeks before the show, and we've yet to do anything.
I just want my last show to be amazing. Phenomenal. Mind-boggling.
Or I'm going to hurt someone. Really, really badly.
I would feel more articulate this evening if it weren't for the fact that I've been standing over my scanner, NOT illegally coping things which are illegal to copy.
All that nothing takes a lot out of you. As rehearsal has taught us.
Explanation:
Mentally, I don't know where I, or the universe at large, stand. I feel neither distraught or disheveled, yet highly aware of my own mentality. I know exactly the things I'm thinking of, and dare not take the time to translate scrolling thought into legitimate revelation. Writing would take much longer, therefore interrupting my sleeping pattern, and ruining whatever remains of my solitary life.
And you wouldn't want to be held responsible for that, would you?
Egh. I have never been subject to aching such as this. Am I aware of what aches? Of course not.
Breathe. Out. In. Etcetera.

I WANNA BE SEDATED.

Poor Johnny.
I have to say that the tiny, little punk-rock heart that thrives within me is breaking: He was a legend of ungodly proportions, and now he's a dead rocker of not-so-ungodly proportions.
I suppose it all evens out in the end.

OUT TONIGHT.

It's time to get out of the house in a most literal sense.
I need to go relax, laugh, become aesthetically pleasing, and take part in numerous exploits such as these.
Where to? I'm not sure.
And I've no one to go with. Boo-freaking-hoo.
Maybe I'll update in a realistic fashion later. I'm far too energized to waste time blabbing incessantly.
Tomorrow I shall blab. Perhaps.

MEOW.

I am presumably lacking in the power department. However, I've yet to find out, as I'm not in Orlando.
Oh well.
We're leaving (momentarily) for the east coast, at which point I can perform a full damage assessment and/or Mission Impossible-esque surveillance over the premises.
I've been in Hicksville for far too long. Save me.
We're tracking down cats- that's how intriguing these last few days have been.
I need a mall. And a food court. And a gay man.
Because heterosexuality is cool, but far too boring.

THE (PRESUMED) LATEST REPORTS FROM THE ORLANDO SLANTINEL.

UPDATE: 4:12 p.m.:
Shelter at Lyman High School is running low on food. Sunday afternoon, officials said they thought they had enough to last through lunch Monday. But after that....
The dinner plan for Sunday: Shelter residents who pick up a sandwich must have their hand stamped to guard against anyone helping themselves to seconds.
The shelter lost water at noon, and toilets wouldn't flush. But it was restored by 3:30 p.m.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
UPDATE: 3:43 p.m.: The decision on whether Seminole County schools will hold class on Tuesday will come after offficials can inspect the campuses on Monday. Some of the schools, however, may still be acting as shelters for evacuees.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'VE ALREADY SURPASSED AN ENTIRE DAVE BARRY CALENDAR.

Just under 365 posts, and yet, far more humorous.
How do I do it?
I'm humble.
As is this hurricane that seeks to belittle my existence by tracking me across the state. Thursday, it's heading for Orlando: we pile into the car with four cats and a hamster. Now, it's heading for St. Pete: we're staying roughly twelve feet below sea level.
Nice.
I've had it with Mother-effing Nature.
At this point, I feel cut off from humanity in general, which is an okay thing. I miss civilization, namely that which fails to include my parents, but I'll tolerate one more day. Any longer, and I fear desperately for the safety of those around me, as they will most surely die.
How is it already September? I feel as though so much of this year has (sue me) floated by, and I've just been a carefree onlooker, laughing as innertubes and small children are carried off by torrential gusts of wind.
That's not too bad of an image, actually.
I'm hoping not to lose power for too long, if for any time at all. It all depends on whether or not the Lord God Himself wills that my education and "reading time" is worth diverting an entire tropical system for, despite His constant lack of interest in my petty hopes and dreams.
Rather strong-headed art Thou, O Lord?
I think so-o.

TELL ME MORE, TELL ME MORE.

1. Talked to the Bishop yesterday. He said, "hey, I remember you, but I have no idea who you are." That was basically the extent of our conversation.
2. Bought forty dollars worth of used scripts and librettos this evening. Six-piece Christopher Durang collection was the top seller at $2.00; I should have put up more of a fight.
3. Covered my room in blankets, comforters, towels, and anything else that was willing to spread over tangible surfaces, namely, every square inch of my room.
4. Drove down to St. Petersburg. Which should go before #2, as should #3. Who cares?
5. Watched two people struggle with the pronunciation of "Antigone." I didn't care to help.
6. Sat on the beach, wind passing across my face, thinking desperately about life in general. Lack of revelation to follow.
7. Ate my share of Pistachio Pistachio ice cream, which is, indeed, as disgusting as it sounds.
8. Found a Bill Clinton doll that was slumped over the edge of a countertop. Obviously from a heart attack.
9. Whipped out my "Tipper Rocks!" drum and hit it for desired effect.
10. Typed up a sorry excuse for an entry to provide insight into the going-ons of life at the moment. Really crappy. Soon to be deleted.

WHAT I WAS ACTUALLY WRITING IN AP LITERATURE.

A list. Of depressing things. Intriguing things.
Adjectives.
BROKEN.
STRUNG.
FRACTURED.
ILL.
DISHEVELED.
UNSURE.
INTENSE.
RELENTLESS.
PLAGUED.
LETHARGIC.
NOSTALGIC.
LITERAL.
INDISPOSED.
FRANTIC.
ILLITERATE.
COMPOUNDED.
OBSERVANT.
ANXIOUS.
UNINHIBITED.
PROLIFIC.
DECEITFUL.

THINKING OF A PERSON TOO TINY TO SEE.

Seussical on the brain.
Can you blame me?
I'm pulling for Mrs. Mayor, and the consensus is that I was cast as such, but I hope not to jeopardize my karma and delete this post in a ravenous, murderous fury tomorrow morning.
Hopefully, that won't be the case.
In whatever situation formulates tomorrow, I hope to be surprised. Casting the musical was certainly a challenge, and I could hardly say that I was fair, or bestowed upon my list the time I would actually invest when faced with the legitimate situation. I know I would have cast differently if I had the evening to brood over such things.
But I don't have to, do I?
I don't know what else to ramble about. I'm not going to waste my own time trying to decide.
Night.

DETAILS, DETAILS.

Ehh.
Completely exhausted. Not just tired. Exhausted. I didn't know what the word meant until this year.
And why, do you ask?
Because.
What a difference I've seen within me this year. I don't think anyone else has noticed, or truly needs to, but I feel like an entirely separate being than that which I was last year. It's this odd, uncalculating existence that I'm not sure I'm entirely capable of handling.
Hmm.
Brevity has never been one of my strengths. I can be concise, yes, but hardly do I reach a point without numerous explanation and general rambling, as my style dictates. Yet, I feel like few words are required to convey this new status I've attained. I'm not sure there are even words that satisfy that which I'm feeling. And that's perfectly fine, as I'm in no rush to explain myself to anyone except myself.
God, how I long to be a quick thinker.
I can't imagine how to digress from what I've thought about in the past weeks. It's been one encompassing emotion after another, yet bountiful with instances hardly worth recounting. I know of a few things I wish I could speak about, I wish I could dream about, but they become so minor in comparison to the vitality that surrounds me.
I am a free floating form, independent of my own reality, and banished from the innerworkings of my own mind. Functionality appears hardly relevant. Nor does emotion. I sit above myself, below myself, in and out and wrapped around myself, camera fixed on the flicker of my eyelash and the wisp of hair that steals away.
I am the insignificant details that have finally begun to add up.

"DO YOU THINK ME HANDSOME?" SAID ROCHESTER. OR DERK.

Egad and zooks, in the same incoherent sentence.
Not that I care, but...
I've hardly found time to loiter online in the previous weeks, what with a hurricane and destruction and death and Seussical and so on.
Seussical. Good God.
I dare not dwell on such a subject at the moment. For the time being, I'm thoroughly engrossed with Urinetown, as I can actually tolerate the music. And, I know I won't have to perform it come November.
Ahh. Now, that's what I call a good show. One you never have to do. Or audition for.
[Editor's Note: Wow. Lots of emphasis in this post. Seems as though someone is trying to make up for a lack of real emotion and sarcasm in her life through pointless HTML.]
Nonetheless, I straggle along, unsure of where I'm going of course. I have little energy, and far less stamina, to compete in the rat race of life. And yet, I sit here, fried to the bone with something, anything I can get my hands onto.
And rambling. Rambling seems to help.
I assumed that by sitting here and pouring out my relatively censored heart to you that I would regain any missing strength and integrity, pick myself up, and march boldly ahead to new horizons, as the original cast of Star Trek would do.
Am I yet to accomplish such a brazen goal? Yes.
Am I completely and utterly hopeless? Not yet.
Am I getting fearfully close? Good God, yes.
Ahh. Those are the words of encouragement I like to hear!

OH, THE THINKS YOU CAN THINK. UNLESS YOU'RE A MORON.

Here, sitting, with Chaz and Elise, skipping lunch.
Nice.
Bell rung.
Bye.

THERE ONCE WAS AN EMO GIRL NAMED KELLEY L. SMITH.

Don't waste your time listening. It will just make you feel better about yourself.

MY KINGDOM FOR A FLASHLIGHT.

Powerless for the last three days, I finally greet you through the magic of laptop via some random cyber cafe' in St. Petersburg.
No, silly! Charley didn't pick me up and fly me westward; he just ruined my no-school fun with a lack of electricity.
Much less exciting, I assure you.
On top of feeling like Arkin Sung Wan ("I'm a refugee! I'm a refugee! Help me! I'm going somewhere because I think it's cool but I really have no idea where I'm going!"), I'm living life in the old school, "mooch off of your parents as you proclaim to be brutally and emotionally damaged after a storm of such ravaging effects," way.
And so far, it's working. Chuckle.
I'm even pulling out my HTML prowess in the midst of this crisis; no buttons to push, no simple "click," just <. And then something. And then >. Viola. Emphasis.
But we have accomplished some interesting feats in the last few powerless days: For instance, we saved a squirrel, and then sent him to a rescue clinic.
We did...some other stuff, too. I just don't remember what they were...right now...
Yeah.
Well, I better keep moving. My time is far from extended, as is indicated by the hordes of angry coffee drinkers behind me. I must dash.
If dash is an adequate word for being chased by angry mobs.

HURRICANE CHARLEY, I LOVE YOU.

Q: What is better than a hurricane day off of school?
A: A hurricane day on a Friday.
I'm beyond ready for this surprise three-day weekend. Here is my general (and yet, well thought-out, given my two-hour notice) plan for tomorrow: We'll traverse down to random kite shops, buy surf boards, and take full advantage of ravaging winds.
We should put a spoiler on my car.
For safety purposes, of course.
Beyond my own personal freedom, I'm glad to see tomorrow fall by the wayside due to the fact that the Tenacious Three (Plyler, Pitman, and their newest edition, Backel) have spent the last two weeks of school blabbering throughout lunch about their combined students, namely myself and E-Dawg.
Scary? Yes. Very, very scary.
I just entreat the gods to let me take a nice, long, sixteen hour rest this evening, so as to eliminate all lack of rest. After all, I care very little about doing school work or "participating," but goodness me: aren't those boys good looking.
That's right. I only go to school to look at guys. And if I was sleep deprived, it would make it much more difficult to accomplish those true goals in life.
Namely, molesting Frank. But first, I must become a cheerleader.
I just need to set my priorities.

SO, THIS IS WHAT THE PILGRIMS FELT LIKE.

Have you ever had one of those days where the word "hell" simply does not promote adequate negative sentiment?
Really?! Me too.
I'm starting to see the signs of my mother's resentment at my leaving for college next year. She doesn't want too see me go, and I can understand that.
It's me. Come on. Who would want to see me go?
Shut up.
Scenario: I'm trying to go to Peter & Paul's tonight for a "mass other than that which I have been resigned to for the past seven years." Which seemed, to me, a logical request. Religious freedom, right?
I'm tired of going to mass with my parents. I lack any emotional input when it comes to sharing something so personal with them: it's not a situation I want to be in any longer than absolutely necessary. There's nothing wrong with them (Ha!), but I get much more out of my religion when they're not around.
What Actually Happened: I end up at Margaret Mary with the family, angsty and tired over not being able to relax in a setting without them. I was mean, audacious, and generally teen-aged in demeanor. It was not the situation I wanted to be in. At all.
They need to realize that as sad as it may be that this is my last year under their roof, it is MY last year to experience the things at home that I truly want to experience. That entails moving apart from them in some situations and finding my own footing. If I stay heavily under their statute, I will have far less preparation than I need for the coming years, and essentially, my life away from home.
They need to let go. Or at least loosen up.

OH, I WISH YOU COULD MEET MY BOYFRIEND; MY BOYFRIEND WHO LIVES IN CANADA.

Dear Kelley with an E,
Yes, you are being quite difficult. Retaining that e like some kind of residual tail. But it may be a good thing. If you are ever in need of an extra E, you have it right there. You don't need to go looking for it. What you could use it for, is quite another matter. You could throw it at people. But that would require writing it down on a piece of paper and hoping the person has some sort of rare disease where the slightest touch is very painful.
I mentioned the movie, because you had mentioned that you were working on a movie. Or at least that's what the Giraffe said. Stupid Giraffe. He's a sly one, standing there, nibbling on the acacia leaves, wiping away the fire ants with his tongue. I myself, do enjoy a good danish. So I think that you have problems intimidating me away from the danish. Unless of course, you are 16 foot tall muscle bound Amazon with steely Jiu-jitsu skills. Of course, you could be two feet tall with no ability to move or injure anyone in any way and I'd still be intimidated.
I do enjoy a good book, but I haven't read one in about a year. Just because finding English reading material is pretty difficult here. I like kind of heavy books, books on spirituality, or interesting ideas. How about you?
I must go. I have a giraffe to attend to.

EGAD AND ZOOKS AND SUCH.

Am I just a teensy bit perturbed that the Enzian has yet to email me back?
May-be.
Far from angsty, however, I sit typing on a Saturday afternoon, preparing myself for work (namely The Summer Assignment From Hell; Thank you, Pitman.) and, well, more work.
Fun!
I'm agonizing over my left foot, as someone saw fit to leave broken shards of glass just laying about for someone to gouge themselves upon. And that was certainly an adequate addition to my adequately informal and preposterous day.
On a rather elevated plus side, I downloaded more ringtones than I think is legally suppressible. But they're amazing. Really, really amazing.
I downloaded the "Ducktales" theme song. That amazing.
I can't fully express in words the enormity of gleeful listening it has been. I've spent most of the past four hours working around the house and doing so with the assistance of MIDI background.
And yes, I am going to load the entire six minutes and thirty-five seconds of "Hotel California" onto my cell phone.
Who wouldn't?

"BFF! BEST FRIENDS FOREVER!"

Or so says Pitman.
I believe her. Maybe.
The interminable week that never seems to end continues to threaten my insolence and stubborn nature: alas, I am compelled to enjoy my teachers, revel in my classes, and most atrocious, do my work.
The third has yet to happen. Thank God.
I'm thoroughly awaiting the end of the week, so that I can trudge down to the Enzian in military fashion, as I've just emailed them in blatant earthworm fashion.
For example:

My name is Kelley Smith. I'm the Vice President for Thespian Troupe 2329 housed at Lyman High School in Longwood, and I'm charged with the responsibility of finding a space both adequate and compatible for an end of the year banquet space, to be scheduled for an evening sometime in May. I was wondering about Enzian's policy for rentals, and trying to find any basic information I could, as we're highly interested in the space. If you could please inform me of any and all specifics, or if the space could even be made available for such an event, I would be entirely appreciative. Thank you for your assistance.

I know. You, too, were waiting for the nefarious "hi, my name is Steve." But alas, poor no one. You'll have to deal with it.
DWI, as the moronic say.
The highlight of the evening was helping Daniel with his Musical Theatre homework. I could have died- he had to research The Phantom of the Opera. I sat him down, gave him a lecture, watched his eyes glaze over in absolute amazement/horror, and laughed as he snuck online to try and "round out" his information, finding that I knew more than the official website.
Yes. I am that good.
I'll have a talk with Backel tomorrow. A little "one-on-one" that explains quite concisely that if these kids want an education, they need to talk to me. Not their computers.
You remember the Matthew Broderick scandal on Amazon.com? Or the Lane fiasco at TonyAwards.com? Dare we recall the Sondheim biography on IMDB?
I do.
Oh, that's right! Because I WAS THE ONE THAT FIXED THE ERRORS AND FOUND THE PROFESSIONALS' MISTAKES! ME! BOO-YEAH!
Okay. I'm fine. Time for bed.
Or soundtracks.

DAY TWO: THE QUEST FOR FRANK.

I've survived the two most endearing and traumatizing days of my life.
I am so unprepared for school. But that's okay.
No one else is prepared. I'm on level playing field. I think.
As long as I can pull through the sleep deprivation and general lack of dignified mentality, I think I have a chance at lasting for at least a few more weeks.
Maybe.

AHH.

AHH, AHH, AHH.
That's about it.

AND SO BEGINS THE END.

Classes.
Glorious, enigmatic classes.
How I loathe thee, most "scornial" of events, dire enemy of all that is carefree and slothful.
Hmm. It doesn't sound so bad when I use words like those.
[Editor's Note: By the by, it's taking a horrendous amount of time to type, due to my grossly enlarged index finger. Bandaged, that is. Otherwise, it fits normal finger description.]
Alas, I retire this fine evening to my final hours of solace and...well...
Sleep. I'm going to sleep.
Goodnight.

LIONS AND TIGERS AND BACKEL, OH MY.

Alright.
Okay.
Okay.
Alright.
I'm off to Busch Gardens, Home of The Worst Stage Show This Side of Walt Disney World.
It really was awful.
Besides my loathing of inadequate entertainment, we're meeting up with Walt [Editor's Note: No, not the frozen one. My father.] where hopefully, we'll waste money in the arcade and ride hideously grungy roller coasters.
It sounds like an enjoyable enough evening to me.
As long as I don't run into Backel. Again.

UPDATE NUMBER TWO.

NEW BUSH/CHENEY '04 SLOGANS:

"I'm like Jesus, only violent."
"I believe in the Easter Bunny and I believe in Bush/Cheney."
"Invade Canada: Vote Bush/Cheney."
"We'll fry the bastards good!"
"He's not that bad."
"Compassionate Hatemongering."
"Keeping the poor down where they belong."
"One Dick, One Bush. As God intended."
"God Says: 'Take one for the team.'"
"Because Jesus hates Gays."

I'm depressed that I missed out on the genuine GeorgeWBush.com poster generator. You can still create your own at GeorgeWBush.org, but it removes any chance for potty-mouths to make their mark on the legitimate campaign trail. Here are some of the previously-created favorites.

UPDATE NUMBER ONE.

I was hugely disturbed by this piece of footage, owing to the fact that it made me giggle gleefully for over fifteen minutes. There's nothing better than homophobic attacks on political figures.
Nothing.

GIVE ME A "J." GIVE ME A "K." AND AN "E."

That, ladies and gentlemen, is your new running party.
And this is the part of that running party that forces me to remember brutal images of child molestation in the third Harry Potter film.
Poor, poor Johnny.

INSTANT MESSENGER, I LOVE YOU.

Two men.
I'm typing with two men that I love. Adore. Quite possibly idolize.
Maybe not "idolize." That's taking obsession to a different level.
How meaningless and trivial we deem instantaneous conversation. Each live in locations that would prove difficult for one-on-one correspondence at 12:30 in the morning, yet here I sit, gleeful and giddy at their words of wit and companionship.
Oh, who am I kidding?
It's 12:30.
We're dazed; it's like I'm talking to stoners. But funny stoners.

THE ODDITIES OF PERSPECTIVE

I wish I could hold a worthwhile discussion with someone. Just for five minutes.
Not, for instance, apocalyptic revelation, St. Paul blinded-by-the-light indulgence, but a real, legitimate, human conversation. Mental communion. Factual consolidation. Spiritual instigation.
I could whip these things out for another hour, but I choose not to.
You're welcome.
As I was driving home this afternoon, I kept picking up my cell phone to call someone, anyone. And I scrolled through my phonebook, as name after glorious name flashed by, realizing:
[A] These people wouldn't want to talk to me if I called them.
[B] I probably wouldn't have anything to say to them if I angled up the courage to press the call button.
[C] I should be watching the road.
And that's when it hit me. No, not an epiphany, but an Altima.
I'm kidding. Really.
I make light of my stirring revelation, but in reality, it scares me. I have so little relationship in my "relationships." My lack of intimacy is prize-worthy. I have such frivolous definitions of communication and the genuine interchange of thoughts and ideas, that when faced with the option of legitimate mental union, I shudder, but for reasons unknown.
I've yet to find someone I feel undeniably comfortable talking to, myself excluded for obvious godliness.
I feel like such a surface individual: That all my communication and inspiration run two levels below my skin, and that I'm bypassing an entire universe of depth and productive utilization. Ugh. I can't even find the words I'm searching for.
Maybe it's a waste of my time. Maybe I'll wander aimlessly in some sort of dramatic stupor until I finally find my talkative soulmate.
I don't know.
"Who does, really?"

"DAS COOL."

I received this instant message from someone who I am positive I've never met before, but it turned out to be an interesting lesson in cultural diversity, to say the very least.
Actually, that's saying a lot.

"LET US JUST SAY THAT HE WAS UNDER THE 'AFFLUENCE OF INCAHOL.'"

God, I love when Fr. Charles comes into town. He will forever be the only Irishman I can tolerate.
It felt so good to be back at school today. Natural. Comfortable. I was relaxed beyond any normal reasoning, and dare I say it, I am excited for the start of this new year.
Dork.
My outward persistence appears to be waning in the midst of inner aggravation. Over what, you ask? None of your business. None of my business, actually. But that's of little consequence for the moment...
What the hell is Business and Entrepreneurial Principles, anyway? "Class For Bossy People?" Did they hand-pick me for that one? Analyze my intuitive talent for scaring the excrement out of people to get them to follow in my self-serving pattern of cult-logic? Could they possess minds of such great capacity to better my own proven methods of deception? Have they hired Satan as my second block instructor? For only the Dark Lord himself could harness the kind of soulless leadership I hope to build upon in the coming years of my already-bombastic existence.
Thank you, Lyman guidance department. Thank you very, very, very much.
Ahh. The glories of wittless philosophy.
Sarcasm.
Whatever you want to call it.

ODE TO MY FLIGHTY MIND.

I haven't felt "sane" in about three months.
Even in that case, sanity is relative.
It will be enormously helpful to leave St. Petersburg this evening and drive to the house, at which point I will collapse on my pillow-lockdown of a bed and finish reading the remaining two hundred pages of Going After Cacciatto.
Woot. Sounds like fun.
In total honesty, I need to read. I haven't detached myself from reality enough in the last few months, and hopefully, a last minute novel cram will provide relative distraction.
I'm trying to think of a list of five things I need to do for myself before school is once again commenced and dominates my existence.
I've yet to make any progress on that list. I'll let you know when I figure something out.

HOMER SIMPSON: INTELLECTUAL GENIUS OR MORONIC DIPWAD?

You decide.

"Kill my boss?!? Do I dare live out the American dream?"

"ACTION PAUL": NOW EQUIPPED WITH GOATEE-TWIRLING FINGERS.

I guess you could say that it was a nice twist of reality to see Plyler this morning.
A very nice shift. Really.
My shoulders ache, my fingers are taught, and my mouth would rather see me hanging off a cliff than reapplying metal to its many, varied, and unusual surfaces.
God, I would kill to be an eloquent writer. I've been choppy and whiny for the last two months, and it would be a welcome change for a bit of verbal advancement.
I'm going to die in AP Literature.

THIS IS WHAT WE CALL "SPEED TYPING."

I'm off in a few minutes: we're running errands around St. Pete, and then, hopefully, we'll storm back to the Greater Orlando Area for a rousing game of "I Haven't Had Sleep In Six Weeks!"
Fun.
Besides the fact that I'm feeling heavily medicated without the medication, it will be important for me to straighten out priorities. For instance, reading my summer novel at least three days before it's due. That's a priority. And organizing Banquet information before Backel rips my head open in some sort of tribal sacrifice and feeds it to the God of Procrastination, Earl.
I have a bit of work ahead of me, eh?

"THAT WAS THE FUNNIEST FUNERAL I'VE EVER BEEN TO."

They were animals.
It was hilarious.
I spent more time laughing this afternoon than I did "pretending to be serious." It was such a relief to see that no one went ballistic or struck into a fit of tears. I could have been bored out of my mind pending other circumstances, but I realized that being bored would waste too much energy.
And I'm rambling. Good.
The surprise of the day was Diocesan Director of Youth Ministry, Tony Maione, showing up in the local grocery store and asking for directions to the funeral parlor. They thought he was insane. I thought he was insane, but that's a whole other story.
And again, I'm rambling.
You have no idea what I'm talking about. And that's okay, because it's my blog, and not yours.
I'm completely and entirely drained from all of the "family interaction time." There are literally twenty-two people randomly entering and exiting the Bellair house as we speak, and the best I can do is sit there on the arm of a couch and wait for the brilliant incompetence to find me on its own.
They're insane. Like Tony, but with a Smith twist. It's almost too much to handle.
For example, we had dinner on Myrtle's tab last night. All eighteen of us. The bill must have been close to $300, but it was okay, because the dead woman was paying.
Morbid? I think so.
But that's my family.
I can't wait to go to college.

OKAY.

I have no idea what I was expecting from my little rendevous with Sir Dork.
Actually, I do. My plan was as follows:
Step 1: I would sit there in the congregation, glaring at him with my beady little eyes, scaring him, and obviously intimidating him to the point of exasperation, in which he'd bolt off the altar in tears like a six-year-old girl.
Step 2: I'd stalk around the church, waiting for him to repeat Step 1, knowing full well that I was still there and ready to attack.
Step 3: I walk up to him in the midst of his adoring public, and watch his eyes grow in magnitude and sheer terror. Finally, repeat Step 1.
Ha. That's a nice thought. This is what actually happened:
Step 1: Pretty much the same as planned, minus the "bolting off the altar in tears" bit.
Step 2: Again, same as planned, minus the famed Step 1.
Step 3: I hid around a pillar, in what appeared to be a line of people (Read: adoring public.) waiting for a handshake and so on. No running and crying, much to my disappointment.
But that wasn't the scary part. He finished schmoozing, walked up to me, and hugged me.
Hugged me.
There is so much wrong with that sentence, and not just grammatically speaking.
Anyway, he continued on, in a much more jovial manner than I was hoping for, and invited me to join the parish. Like, "attend every week so that I have to see Derk constantly, so that he can rub into my face that not only is he a pastor, but he's the pastor of one of the wealthiest churches this side of Norway, not to mention the fact that he has the entire place to himself, including a two car garage."
Like I said: "Invited."
I don't understand it. He was so nice. I had every intention of going in there and systematically destroying his feeble little mind, yet I was left with a null and void reaction of "nice."
Not funny. Really.

101 THINGS THAT CLASSIFY AND DECIPHER KELLEY.

By Kelley.
Of course.

1. My name is Kelley, which makes sense to me: in Gaelic, it translates to "female warrior."
2. I am sardonic. Really, really sardonic. Dumbass.
3. I have a blatant obsession with showtunes and the people that perform them.
4. I hate the way I write, but strictly grammatically speaking. I actually like my handwriting.
5. I have a desperate fear of biscuit cans that are peeled open and then explode in front of you.
6. I feel like I'm twelve. Constantly.
7. I actually enjoy school, just not all of the people that happen to be enrolled.
8. I have a birthmark on my left arm that looks like...nothing.
9. I am Catholic, and probably always will be.
10. I've attempted four times to remove every item in my room and subsequently donate each and every one to charity.
11. None of these attempts succeeded.
12. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte is my favorite novel, and has been for the last eight years.
13. A Man For All Seasons is my favorite play, but for unknown reasons.
14. I love pre-20th Century works far greater than any other literature.
15. I am anal-retentive and largely compulsive when it comes to grammar. Period.
16. The last time I cried was during the intermission of a performance of The Phantom Of The Opera.
17. I was an Honor Junior Thespian, but never received my certificate. I haven't gotten over that.
18. I can't stand Tofu.
19. I could easily live off of Ginger Ale and crunchy peanut butter.
20. I've never been "in love" before.
21. I started writing in all capital letters on August 14th, 1998. I still don't know why.
22. I can type 40 words per minute.
23. Four-Square is the greatest game known to mankind.
24. I have played Dance Dance Revolution only once in my life.
25. Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now" is the single greatest song ever recorded, closely rivaled by Cat Stevens' "Peace Train."
26. Bernadette Peters is my least favorite person to ever perform on a Broadway stage.
27. Gene Kelly is one of my idols. I would kill to dance like him.
28. My CD collection includes close to 300 different artists. And I enjoy them all.
29. I have met Richard Karn, host of Family Feud!, among other prime celebrities.
30. Not having anything to cover my lap makes me uncomfortable to a great degree.
31. Dr. Pepper tastes nothing like Mr. Pibb.
32. I have survived cancer.
33. I don't know what my natural hair color is. Was.
34. I love driving in the rain.
35. If I ever have children, I will be the worst parent ever.
36. I'm best described as a liberal, but lump myself into the Democrat category.
37. I'm fascinated by Judas Iscariot, and find his betrayal a twisted study into human interaction with spiritual guidance.
38. I'd like to be on an episode of Sesame Street one day, just for kicks.
39. Before I die, I demand to learn how to juggle five balls.
40. My favorite color is green, closely followed by orange.
41. I've never felt as if I had a home, but more as if I was just bunking for extended periods of time.
42. I have no idea what I want to do when I grow up.
43. My favorite quote ever is from Arthur Miller's Death Of A Salesman: "Attention must be paid."
44. Don Jones will forever be my hero.
45. Ever since Donald Rumsfeld revealed his secrets for staying fit, I've worn a pedometer.
46. Well, at least "carried in my bag" a pedometer. Specifics.
47. The story of Giovanni the Juggler scared me in kindergarten, and haunts me to this day.
48. If I ever started a cult, I don't know what we'd follow, but we'd be called "The Brotherhood Of Unconstrained Verbosity."
49. I've always dreamed that I'd marry either an Italian, or Edward Rochester. I can't explain the first, but the second is rather obvious.
50. I've kept journals of some sort since the age of five.
51. My favorite article of clothing is a shirt that I bought at an Unsung Zeros concert. (I don't know anything about the band.)
52. People either take me far too seriously or not seriously at all.
53. My face appears to be a perpetual frown, but I'm rarely trying to look upset or angry. I just have no muscle control.
54. My favorite album is Cat Stevens' Teaser and the Firecat.
55. The greatest memory I have is of performing in front of 25,000 people as Dorothy Day.
56. I love the Laundromat. I just do.
57. I've never been kissed, and I'm okay with that.
58. If I could speak and write in only Olde English, I wouldst.
59. I could watch the Gene Wilder version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory every day of my life and never grow bored of his performance.
60. I've never had an infatuation over someone of my own age.
61. I had a quarter-life crisis at 16.
62. Supposedly, I'm rumored to have a great stand-up comedy routine built up over the years of familial material.
63. I'm still not sure I know what a Louie Vatton bag is.
64. I once stayed awake for two days and seventeen hours in order to finish a project for my 4th grade gifted class. It was on architecture.
65. I got an A, and slept for two days.
66. I can't speak in French on a conversational level, but I can write it out like no one's business.
67. At age 7, I stole a Pound Puppy from Big Lots.
68. I collect odd, funky, differently-shaped, colored, freakish, and eccentric ties.
69. I spent a full day in solitude and mourning the day after the 5th Harry Potter book was released and I had finished reading it.
70. I don't understand death.
71. Logic is the only word in my Lexicon.
72. My favorite letter in the alphabet is "E."
73. Some people say that I'm quiet; others claim that I'm loud. But...
74. ...I'm actually a solid introvert with extrovertial qualities.
75. I like making up words, but only when they make definite sense.
76. I often feel like I tell more lies than I do truths.
77. My favorite city in the United States is Washington DC.
78. I've never been outside the United States.
79. I've always wanted to be the Pope.
80. As far as I'm concerned, if I can't write it in less than an hour, it will be crap.
81. I don't enjoy the color pink. It makes me uneasy.
82. If I could have one cartoon character exist in real life, it would be "The Cheat" from HomestarRunner.com or "Rosie" from The Jetsons.
83. The one night of television worth viewing is the Tony Award Ceremony, but just to see who wins. The ceremony itself is either hokey (Hugh Jackman) or just plain stupid (Hugh Jackman). But I still love it.
84. When I was five, I named my cat Alaneta after the dog, Perdita, from "101 Dalmations."
85. I've never broken a bone in my body.
86. However, I am missing 2 1/2 ribs. Ooh.
87. The one role I'd kill to play is Tommy's mother in The Who's Tommy.
88. I have a wicked laugh. Sort of.
89. Black beans and yellow rice make up my favorite meal.
90. I attempted suicide once when I was 15. Needless to say, it didn't work.
91. "Zazzle" is quite possibly my favorite word.
92. My favorite musical is...I could never decide something like that.
93. When I was younger, I dreamed of being either a dancer or a secret agent. Either way.
94. I have a chronic habit of biting my nails.
95. "3" has been my lucky number for the longest of times.
96. When I met two of my closest friends, I hated them.
97. I've always wanted to live in Europe, preferably England.
98. I want to go back in time to see three odd pieces of history: The dawn of existence, Abraham Lincoln's assassination, and the collapse of the Berlin wall.
99. I am cowardly, shy, and undeniably trepidatious.
100. I would love to be a director someday.
101. I am not perfect; but sometimes, I come very, very close.

OOH.

PRETTY.  
This new text editor thingy is nice, I suppose. A bit distracting, perhaps, but resourceful for all who deem it necessary.
Agh. What do I care?
I got my license yesterday, which was more than a relief, I must say.
And then, I bashed Bush for two hours!
Horrah!
I think I'm going to go relax for a bit. Watch some TV, cook dinner for the three remaining Smiths, purge my body of all intelligent thought.
You know, "Friday Stuff."

WORTH A FIVE MINUTE WAIT? THIS BLOG THINKS SO.

Forget the fact that the sound and footage aren't synchronized.
He's freaking GORGEOUS.
And the little gasps at the end?
AHHHH.

IS THIS THE END, MY SHALLOW-YET-GOOD-LOOKING FRIEND?

Sorry. Someone was rhyming and it just sort of popped out.
I promise not to do that again.
Nonetheless, I'm off to St. Pete for the evening (in about two hours), and---
Ooh. Um...
My grandmother just died.
Okay.
Someone call me.

OUI, JE PARLE LE FRANÇAIS.

We went by Bonbini's Burgers and as some sort of weird trial-process logic, grabbed a menu and sat down.
Luckily for me, the chain is linguistically deprived.
Their version of French Fries are "Pomme Frites," which would be acceptable and dandy, except for the minor factor that separates potatoes and apples. [Editor's Note: Not to mention the fact that the French word, "frites," satisfies fully the idea of French Fries, without the additional vegetable adjective.]
[Editor's Note: Whoops. I mentioned it.]
Apples, of course, fall under the French word "pomme."
Potatoes, which I'm sure they were leaning towards, fall under "pomme de terre."
Poor, moronic fast-food chain.
I heartily enjoyed my potato-ish "fried apples," thank-you-very-much.

"I REFUSE TO DIE A MONSTER."

Sure, Mr. Molina.
I gave in. I went to see SpiderMan late last evening, and honestly, I enjoyed it.
Not the horrible, God-forsaken acting, mind you. For example, Willem Dafoe's two-minute appearance was easily the highlight of the evening. And despite the fact that Alfred Molina is a self-described "old, fat guy," he did a relatively okay job as Octavius.
Fiddler: Not so great.
Maguire and Dunst, of course, were wretched. Harris was brilliant, but mostly because she's too aged to be much else.
And Franco; Let us just say that if James Franco was just a little bit better at keeping his mouth shut and not pretending to act, he would be the most gorgeous man alive. But, like some know-it-all beauty, he has to pretend he has talent.
No, James. No.
Technically, the film was bounds beyond the first. Not amazing, mind you, but a relief from what I expected. Of course, every possible plot direction has now been drained and exposed, leaving nothing but a bitter taste and Franco in Dafoe's costume to fill the void of "3."
So excited about that one.
Ehh, not so much.
I did, however, enjoy screaming the few lyrics of "Vindicated" that I actually knew. It was permissible, simply because I was one of four people in the theatre.
Poor burnt-out Winter Park Village.

DAMN YOU, CORPORATE NAZIS.

I've realized by this point that the true beauty of my new phone is my inability to functionally utilize it.
I can take pictures, but can I distribute them?
No.
I'm still grappling with the idea that I'll have to slide another $25 under the gigantic table of commercialism in order to find the USB cable I'm in need of. But what's even more disconcerting is the fact that I've yet to find a suitable ringtone for le Sony Ericsson T616 of Death.
[Editor's Note: "Yet to find a suitable ringtone" denotes "too cheap to pay for one."]
I may have to give in at some point...Pay for some crappy, upbeat pop tune that everyone in the room will instantly recognize, bob their heads and snap their fingers to.
Or, better yet, gorge their eyeballs out at!
Here are a few of the top possibilities (All submitted by people with no lives):
* "Baby Got Back"
* "Ice Ice Baby"
* "Copacabana"
* "Try A Little Tenderness"
* "I Shot The Sheriff"
* "Cotton Eye Joe"
* "I'm Too Sexy"
* "We Built This City"
* "My Heart Will Go On"
* "Invisible"
I think I've listed all of the awful songs I humanly can without keeling over into seizures. At this point, at least.
Feel free to throw some in.
Coming up next: A longer, more detailed list of the worst songs in history.
[Editor's Note: And by "next," I mean "later. Long, long time from now."]

THE APPLICATION OF DOOM.

Actually, this is just the funny portion of the application. The rest, I daresay, was a resume, and largely exaggerated.
Or not.
It was.
Not.
*Smiles.*
FAVORITE ATHLETE OR SPORT:
In my household, football is a mandatory course of existence. Perhaps not for my younger brother, who prides himself in the athletic exploits of Legos, but that’s an entirely different story. As the oldest child, I am my father’s only resource for athletic entertainment, and therefore, the “watching buddy.” And despite the fact that I’m female, seventeen, and medically forbidden from playing the game where tackling, rushing, and “sapping” threaten the human existence of two teams full of men who look as though they’re really into the pain thing, I enjoy it to a wordless degree. I grew up in St. Petersburg, where the motto is “Our Bucs Are Still Losing, But They’re Ours!” My grandfather, a season-ticket holder since the moment the team officially began its long trudge into losing, spent his game days chasing either me, my little brother, my father, or a combination of all three, up and down and up and down and sideways and down through the stands of my beloved, yet now desolate home, the Tampa Stadium. Watching the games, although thoroughly uneventful for the majority, sparked an excitement that I thought only Twinkies could provide. No, indeed: the spark was Football.
Years later, I sit at the stands of my own football stadium, the Lyman High School track, where the past year has brought joy and excitement of its own, as our Greyhounds took a little Buccaneer victory of their own, forcibly stealing the District 5 title from all of the good teams. We at Lyman were beside ourselves- Us? Winning something? It was far too good to be true, but in the end, we lost. So, it wasn’t that difficult to grapple with. All but three games this year, I sat on the sidelines, occasionally looking at the field, but primarily shielding myself from the torrential rain and/or fans. But honestly, covering some of those unceasingly emotional games for The Growl was possibly the greatest immersion into the sport of football I could have ever asked for. The forcible drive of the players, the commitment and devotion they epitomized on the field, and of course, watching them beat the living crap out of each other. That’s what I love. Not the points, or the moron quarterback, or even his slightly-less-moronic second-string quarterback; it’s the stamina, the visible and ghastly sweat, and the feeling that can come only through merciless overtime. That is why I love football.
WHAT YOU HOPE TO LEARN THROUGH THE SPORTS INSTITUTE:
Besides a mere expansion into my sports and journalistic education (Duh.), I feel that an opportunity such as the Institute will guide my personal and journalistic assertiveness. By thrusting myself into the faces, stories, and lifestyles of the athletes, coaches, and competitive community at large, I feel that my writing will become more personal, my approach more professional, and my journalistic foundation increasingly concrete.
Twenty minutes. I wrote it in twenty minutes.
And it's still awful.

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN GOOD COMICS ARE SMART, TOO.

The glorious mind of Darby Conley. And me.

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO DANIEL, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO DANIEL. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO---

Okay. Nobody needs anymore of that, myself included.
It's Daniel's birthday, so I figured that I'd try to be nice and mention it.
Mentioned.

IT'S ALMOST 6 PM. DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR BEST FRIEND IS?

Nope.

IS THIS WHY WE LOVE JAMES BARBOUR?

Yes.
"When you're doing the same show night after night, how do you keep it fresh?"
"I try to think of a play much like Oedipus’ predicament. Oedipus was doomed to his fate no matter what he did to try and prevent it. So taking that idea I put a play in a box. There are parameters, boundaries, if you will around what I can do as an actor and still reach the ultimate goal (which in this case is to tell the story of the character I am playing). Those boundaries include dialogue, the other characters (actors) on stage, the lighting, music (if it’s a musical), the blocking, as well as all the things that were created in rehearsal to make the show come to life. Now, within those boundaries I can move anywhere I want so long as I do not step outside the line. To do so would be break the structure of the play. In essence, my character is fated to reach his destiny at the end of the show and my choices (as an actor) must remain within the walls of that show. Yet, the key is to make it look as if I were actually living it for the first time, each time I took the stage. Oedipus, raging against his destiny yet fated to reach it…make sense?"
Yes, oh, God, yes.
It does, James.
It does.

SUMMERTIME.

I've had the genuine "opportunity" to take a few weeks this vacation to sit and think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
Alright. Enough thinking.
My point is this: ---
Ugh. Why can't I just find the words to allow me to process that which is streaming through my head, screaming without invitation or welcoming, possessing my every thought, my every movement...
It's like waking terror. There are words seated just beyond my eyes that might become apparent if the right person would simply take a few minutes to search for them.
Search. It seems a ghastly concept, to search "through" someone to find that which you're looking for. Yet, as pretensious and unforgiving, it seems remotely seductive, destructively and undesirably satisfying.
Unhinged.
That was the only word I could think of to describe myself to a colleague when he asked me how I was feeling.
Unhinged: To remove from hinges.
To remove the hinges from.
To confuse; disrupt.
Informal. To derange; unbalance: He was unhinged by his wife's death.
"Aren't you always 'unhinged'? More often 'dehinged' is my guess."
"'Dehinged'? By what or whom?"
"By life."
It's too bad that 'dehinged' isn't a word. I fear I like the sound of it better.
Hinged: To be contingent on a single factor; depend.
Does my life hinge on one thing or another? I'd like to think so. Jumping from one instance to the next, hanging on whatever shed of diligence I still boast upon, clinging to existence itself.
"Maybe you should try to 'grease' yourself up so that you won't be 'dehinged' anymore."
"And how would I manage to do that?"
"Well, it's like WD-40. It'll keep you swinging."
So, I'm searching for my grease: My oily mixture that promises a squeak-free ride through wherever this and the following years take me.
It sounds so easy.
All of it seems like it should be so simplistic, so possible and real and eccentric, definable and actual.
But it doesn't look that way.

DOES JOHN HEFFRON REMIND US OF BRAD FARMER?

This Blog thinks so.
I'm starting to side with Brett Butler: this year's Last Comic Standing "competition" on NBC ("We Still Haven't Recovered From Losing Friends") is prime-time sham material.
I mean, Gary!? Still on the show!? I'll pick any gay man in America over Gary and his German Shepard jokes...
It just brings me to convulsive fits that we can't have one honest show on television that's willing to let the really, truly talented people shine through, versus the young, muscular, and thickheaded of the nation.
Now, excuse me. I have to go do my sit-ups.

HALT.

I just read something that I feel will haunt me for the rest of this evening, if not my following existence.
I've been cheated out of something wonderful.
But I was the one that cheated.
Cheated is such a demanding word. And I don't think I can legitimately use it. But for some demeaning reason, it fits. This. Right now.
I denied myself something for the right reasons, but was it the wrong thing to deny?
Is this how it ends?

"WE'RE INDEPENDENT!" OR SO SAYS MY CALENDAR.

I don't believe much of it.
I haven't been able to take more than a few meager steps without blaring patriot music and whoop-did-dee-doo-dah patriot pride.
It's sickening.
The fact that we exist in a nation that allows monkeys to rule the White House, a quintuple bypass surgery candidate to pull the nation's strings, and an electoral college to determine what the country really wants, just makes me want to shoot off mini-rockets in my own backyard.
Fireworks, if you will.
But, here's the twist: Directly into the monkey's head.
Happy Birthday, America!
I love you, Alexander Hamilton!
And Thomas Jefferson, that hottie!

"SO, LET ME SLIP AWAY," AND MANY MORE FUN TEENAGE LYRICS FROM CHRIS CARRABBA.

It's a very disillusioning experience to wake up on your own in the morning.
And I mean that in a very non-hooker-ish sense.
I spent the last week sharing very minimal space with twenty-two other people, some of which disgusted me, most of which annoyed me, and some of whom adored me.
I miss them. I don't know how further to express it, but I can't handle the "encompassing" presence of my four other family members, compared to the casual nature of my, dare I say it, more compelling week with twenty strangers.
God, I miss them.
What else can I say?
I despise myself for feeling lonely.