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 Perhaps years, or at least months have passed since I've felt the withdrawn stab of legitimate intellectual thought.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.