GARY SOTO IS COOL. ALMOST AS COOL AS BLACKBOARD.

Okay. So, maybe that statement is entirely sarcastic and demeaning to all parties involved...
I certainly hope so.
I've ceased revision after revision, annotation, and seek a nice, relaxing Friday.

I WIN, I WIN, I WIN.

Who rocks the house? Kelley rocks the house.

HAVE I STOPPED TO SAY HOW MUCH I HATE YOU LATELY?

That was actually intended to be humorous...You just have to imagine the sappy love music in the background...Which seems to be following me everywhere this week.
I long for some sleep.
But beyond that, I'm not the most competent human being, which helps, I suppose.
I haven't emailed Anthony back.
I haven't emailed Adam back.
I feel awful about that. About leaving them email-less and possibly friendless and definately more depressed as a result of less Kelley in their lives...
Who am I kidding?
I need them a whole lot more than they could ever need me...
Hmm. Not the happiest of thoughts.

"YOU HAVE TWENTY SECONDS TO GET THIS BLOOD OFF THE FLOOR BEFORE I DISQUALIFY YOU, TROUPE 1983!"

Districts was eventful, to say the least.
I made out with Superior Tech for Baby With The Bathwater, Superior Ensemble Acting for I Hate Hamlet, Excellent Playwriting for Plainclothes Leo, and All Star Tech, again for Baby.
I rocked the house.
Okay, maybe not so much...But I am excited to see the judication forms and determine whether I was in any way a support for those Superiors, or if I was simply annoying enough that the District judges felt obliged to put the State judges through the same meticulous pain...
I have quite a bit of work to do, least of which is absorbing myself completely in all AP Language persuits, which means that I can't slack off else I am murdered by the Almighty Himself, P-Dawg.
By the by, there was a Plyler judge this weekend. He had quite some sense of style, I must say...
And Kennith. Oh, dearest Kennith.

BREATHING, I AM, BUT TO NO SUREFIRE AVAIL...

I don't think a word in that sentance even makes sense. I don't think anyone cares, either. So, I guess it works out.
I don't think I'm ready for Districts, or even classes today and rhersal after school...I have so little information, so little motivation, it makes me giggly...
Ugh. I have to get ready to sleep in Physics...
Nighty night, Blog.

WE ARE THE GEPHARDTS! MIGHTY MIGHTY GEPHARDTS!

We could be the GERHARDTS too, I suppose...But let's be honest with ourselves...
Give Dick a Chance.
Preview was actually a nice event this evening, and all went rather smoothly, with the exception of my conscience derailing me from viciously murdering The Man Whore and He Who Does Not Speak English on lights and sounds, respectively. Luckily, I will still be at fault in the eyes of The Troll.
And the world is at peace.
[Editor's Note: I'm actually proud of our ensemble piece...It went very smoothly considering the week of non-rehearsal, and apparently it was one of the funnier pieces...Uh, huh.]
I'm beginning to question my insecurities in Lang...Perhaps I'm reading far too much into life in general (Which just so happens to be my underlying theme for this week: "So, You Think Your Life Is All BS. Well, Guess What...You're Correct!" Catchy, huh?), which means that I can just calm down, roll with the non-existent punches, and use my cunning and good looks to coast through life upon.
Heh.
My conversation with the P-Dawg this morning followed somewhere along the Dressed To Kill "Cake or Death" scene.
"Lit or Death? Lit or Death?"
"Oh, I'll take Death...I mean, Lit!"
"No, you said Death first!"
"But I meant Lit. Really!"
"Oh, alright. Lit it is...We're gonna run out pretty soon. Didn't realize there'd be such a rush for Lit, did we?"
Ahh...Good old Eddie.

THIS, SIR, MAKES ME FEEL SECURE ABOUT MY EDUCATIONAL FUTURE.

Grr.
It's been a nice week. Non-productive, but inspiring, I suppose...
Accomplished.

MARRIED GERMANS, BILLY RAY CYRUS, AND GARY SINESE. TRUE MEN OF THE CENTURY.

Could the evening have been any more spectacular? I don't think so.
"Married German" was the person lumped into our buffet table at Fake Germany in Epcot. He was scared to death having to sit next to us, worried that it was irrational and against our normal customs, forcing us to eat him in retaliation. Instead, I taught him how to say "variety."
I think his name was Rolf, but I'll never be sure.
Unless he's a terrorist.
Onto Gary Sinese: We decided to finally give into the hype and take a trip onto Mission to Mars. It's was G-Force worthy, indeed, and contained the only man worthy of the title "astronaut."
Obviously, that man is Gary.
And then, Mr. Billy Ray Cyrus, the King of Country. We ended up walking around Epcot somewhere near ten o'clock this evening, and sure enough, Billy Ray Cyrus is singing about his relentlessly achy-breaky-heart. He never stops singing about it, as a matter of fact.
Actually, it was something more demeaning. The Colgate Country Awards or something pathetically corny like that...Anyway, there was Billy, hosting and singing and probably spending way too much time trying to convince the audience that mullets really were cool back in "his day and age."
Pouvre Billy.
I think it's about time for this little Bloggerette to sign herself off and dream of her new heroes...
Hmm. Gary.

WHA'S HAPPENIN'?

BLOGGER - News Archive
I have absolutely no idea what this is for, but I'm just going to Roll With It.
[Editor's Note: I was testing the Blog This! feature, and apparently, I've figured out how to make it work...Neeto.]

THERE IS NO WAY THIS IS HUMOROUS. IN FACT, IT'S DEMEANING AND RUDE TO ALL PERSONS INVOLVED.
Which is why I've decided I love it.

LOOKING FOR WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION?

So is the US, dummy.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY. P-DAWG DEAR, P-DAWG DEAR. HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

Yes. It is to the tune of Frere Jaques. Cry me a river, and read the play.
I still have to make a card, and it will be crappy, but it will still be a birthday card. And that will be good.
Apparently, we're volunteering at the Florida Film Festival this year, whether I like it or not. And I do. But at least I know there would be no option should I protest.
And now, we're looking at Jeff "I Killed Myself" Buckley pictures, which is cool...
I'm needing to do something...I don't know what. But something.

GIVETH DENNIS MINE TRINKET, STRONGBAD...

Videogame is interesting, to say the least.
I'm tired, but completely ready for rehearsal today...It should be no more than mortifying and argumentatious disaster...Fun!
Excuse me for a moment, as I'm being attacked by pink scarf tassels.

SPAM, THE AMAZING MEAT

Ahh...Home.
Or, computer. Whatever works.
I'm exhausted, but I still contain the need to finish my AP Lang. essay, the 8th Grade skit, etc...Not to mention the fact that I've started this ginormous email to Adam, the Canadian English Teacher (A letter which I am completely lost in the midst of writing...), I can't get that stupid 7-4-13 out of my head (Which is not as bad as the fact that I've encoded his name, proving that I'm the only person in the universe willing to waste the energy to do such things...), and other stuff, the likes of which I have no need to tangle with at this point...
Tired.
I think I need to get offline and try to start on some of tomorrow's stuff...Like my P-Dawg essay and whatever else I can stand to tackle...It should be messy. Brains flying all over the room, crap hitting the fan...
I need paper towels. Horray, Bounty Man.

FLAME RETARDANT FISH, FLUES, FLU, AND FLYING...

Ahh, what a gloriously freezing morning...
I have just a few, breif updates to make before the internet as we know it crashes and burns with a firery vengance:
-I saw Gene last night.
-He offered me a job with Q.
I'll get back to this later.

I'M SH-SH-SHAKIN'...IRONICALLY ENOUGH.

I don't know what Rooney has to do with anything, but then again, I'm not a logical person, so nothing really has to have anything to do with anything else, does it?
I know. I confuse myself sometimes.
Ugh. It's been one of those off days...At least I'm now fully aware of why I enjoy school more than home...There was a series of ten minutes in K-Mart this evening when I felt sure I'd drop dead to the floor, surrounded by discount wrapping paper and hairstyling products galore. It was an eerie ten minutes.
Or, if we're in AP Language, it's "erie." Like the lake.
The youth rally was canceled for Saturday, and I thought for sure I was out of a Genescapade...But no, the Mission From Hell ends early on Sunday, and we can see them with Gayle's horde, and I will once again be lovelost and forlorn.
Hooray!
I suppose I'm most excited over The Phantom Of The Opera come Thursday...It means an afternoon of pure musical theatre greatness, P-Dawg, and Elis. I--
Don't know...
I can't think right now: it's a blobbing gelatin of nothingness that I'm incompetent at harnessing, yet dutifully obliged to torment myself with. Thought, that is. My eyelids shut in a combination of things unknown, exhaustion and scorn surely associated, and I just don't know how to cope with it...I'm not depressed, just inconsiderate...I don't deserve all the things I have in my life, I don't deserve the privileges, and the esteem, and the pride, and the incoherent babbling that flutters across my eyelids at one-hundred-and-eighty-six miles per hour...
I need to stop at this point, I think. Too in-depth for tonight...I need to watch some Strong Bad or something mindless like that...