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.