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.
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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.
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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.