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.

CYNDI LAUPER IS HOME.

This may very well have been the week to end all weeks.
It was draining.
Wet.
Swampy.
Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself. I reconnected with two ridiculously close friends, led two workshops on my own, drove for twenty minutes down a dark, marshy road with six kids piled into my backseat, fought viciously with a Derk-ish seminarian, discovered the beauty of minor food poisoning, and actually played a swamp monster named "Ooga Booga", who looked remarkably close to Satan.
I am minimally exhausted.
Luckily for me, I met some very interesting people. Some of the kids we were leading were absolutely hilarious, though I daresay that none could compare to the supreme wit of Kelley. I worked my arse off. Seriously.
The seminarian, José, was quite possibly the most intriguing aspect of the week. He's originally from Puerto Rico, with a minor in Acting, and speaks a mangled, garbled, yet very correct form of English. He'd get deeply into conversation with someone, and suddenly turn to you and repeat the last word he'd said to make sure it fit correctly into his thought.
Total geek.
He was funny, but in a rather proud, bold sense; a sense that simply demands for me to retort the only way I know how: Demeaning cruelty. But a funny sort of demeaning.
So, we clashed. We also happened to be very, very much alike, which, thankfully, allowed for some amazing conversation in-between the violent, bloody sparring. We shared some really compassionate moments, actually. We had a Taizé prayer service on Wednesday night, during which we handed out letters to the kids from their friends and family. José had mentioned earlier that all of his family lived back home (PR), and that he hadn't seen them in close to a year. I decided it would be a nice opportunity if I were to accompany his family letters with one of my own. Little did I know, he had no family letters. In realizing this, and recognizing the fact that the only letter he would read that evening would be mine, I tore into the upstairs portion of the house the service was set in, and hid in a chair, praying to remain undiscovered for a lack of embarrassment, if not the overwhelming need to take the letter back while the opportunity still existed.
[Editor's Note: It would have mattered little if the note were given at a different time, when reaction would be inappropriate or inaccessible, due to my absence. All of the letters given out were from people back home, who were immune from emotional ambush as a result of kind words and compassion. But I was very much there, very much accessible, and very much vulnerable to anything that might be thrown out in reaction to a note the caliber of the one I gave him.]
Minutes later, I heard footsteps trotting upstairs (Nora, one of my co-workers, had been kind enough to tell him I was hiding in the fetal position upstairs- Thanks, Nora. Or not.). José made his way across the upstairs "bedroom" setting, pulled me out of my chair, and embraced me. It was a nice, if not horrific moment. I wasn't sure how to react, but I think I handled the situation appropriately, staring blindly like a deer, and then leaping down the steps, plowing through candles and young teenagers. Smooth.
Last night, we were required to give a "witness talk," formulaically a rambling speech about the special and godly things we'd experienced during the week. I was horrendously funny, and managed to squeeze in that I thought José was a "hyperactive ball of seminarian energy, but in a good way."
His talked widely about the group, and then specifically about each of the team members. I sat next to him, solely for bathroom and hallway control of the cabin, and was the second-to-last person he spoke about. [Editor's Note: Paul, the final victim, had spent the week building "trust" and other crappy elements of personality with José. Plus, they spent time rubbing Icy-Hot on each others' shoulders. They went to Wal-Mart together. It was the kind of relationship that demanded final-speaking rights.]
To me, the little foreign man said (and this is a rather crisp quote, if I may say so myself):
"Cyndi Lauper-"
[Editor's Note: At this, there was chuckling by Paul, sitting to the left of me and José. He retorted: "Just you wait, Paula Abdul. I talk about you next."]
"Kelley- you are an amazing girl. Awesome. We fight. A lot. But our temperaments are so alike, it is alright, because you and I know it is. You are very, very talented. You are an actress with power. You have the gift to lead others and to take control. And your letter- it touched me. You are so beautiful. You will do so much. I pray to God that you get everything you wish for. Because you deserve it. I love you."
I've probably forgotten the majority of what he said, but I know I remember those fragmented, Spanglish sentences. I could feel my eyes welling up with tears, and I was shivering, but not from temperature. I could hardly stand to look him in the eyes as he was speaking to me, yet I could hardly pull them from his own glare. It was a really difficult two minutes. Too much emotion. Too much concentration. Too much.
But, we ended the week pouring root beer floats over each other, and arguing, and teasing. It was rather back to normal.
Obviously, as aforementioned, the week was one of oddities and obscurities beyond all belief.
And I'm exhausted.