Saturday, December 31, 2005
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
YOU'VE COME A LONG WAY, BABY.
Checking out of Canton, NC; on our way towards Charleston, SC.
It will be four hours of hell in a car. With four other people. Fun.
AGH.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
MISSING YOU? HARDLY.
Liar.
I hate the fact that I've finally found people in my life who demand me to miss them. Not that they demand it of me, but I demand it of myself, as though they all possess the power to tango frantically with my emotions and somewhat lack of control over them.
I miss so many people.
Ugh.
I hate the fact that I've finally found people in my life who demand me to miss them. Not that they demand it of me, but I demand it of myself, as though they all possess the power to tango frantically with my emotions and somewhat lack of control over them.
I miss so many people.
Ugh.
Monday, December 26, 2005
TRAVELING DAY.
The family is trekking to NC and SC (What a baffling combination of destinations!) for the next four days, so internet will be scarce, but I will post with flair whenever possible.
Hooray for AudioBlogger!
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Thursday, December 22, 2005
FELL DOWN; FOOT GO BOOM.
Kelley go OUCH.
Rocking out the crutches (for the first time in my life), and thinking about holding off my Orlando Adventure until after the impending holiday.
Grr.
Hopefully, pain will subside, and I'll be on my way for a day of fun near the Mouse.
Only time shall tell.
Rocking out the crutches (for the first time in my life), and thinking about holding off my Orlando Adventure until after the impending holiday.
Grr.
Hopefully, pain will subside, and I'll be on my way for a day of fun near the Mouse.
Only time shall tell.
BROKEBACK: THE MUSICAL!
If Nathan is backing it, and it's horrifically fake, I love my life.
He's so gay.
Love him...
He's so gay.
Love him...
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
NEW YORK AND KELLEY: A LOVE STORY, A SYNOPSIS.
It's been a terribly exhausting few days, with absolutely no reasoning in sight. Nonetheless, I wanted to consolidate my New York Frame Of Mind before it had fled in its entirety. So, without further adieu:
Wednesday was a motley rush of finding correct flight numbers and bustling back and forth in various travel scenarios. We finally landed in New York, where I checked my voicemail, finding that one element of my Northeastern Expedition was having second thoughts about city traveling. Besides being frustrated beyond all belief, my call to said party seemed to influence a bit more confidence and cooperation, and by the next morning, our plans were rather concrete.
Getting into the city was no difficult feat, but finding our hostel in twenty degree temperatures was not an adventure I'll soon forget. We settled in, bundled up, and subway-ed ourselves down to Broadway and 50th, where we traversed down my all-too-familiar Favorite Street In The Universe. We ended up near the TKTS booth, and Mary, non-chalantly, suggested that we peek to see what inexpensive tickets we could still find. Floored, yet utterly delighted, I found that there were still Putnum County Spelling Bee tickets for sale, FREAKED OUT, and went up to purchase two tickets of sheer glee. The server, however, had other plans: it knew I was at the counter, and simultaneously FREAKED OUT, leaving myself and everyone after me ticket-less and slightly less enthusiastic as I had been just moments earlier. Still, we wandered around for a bit longer, taking in dinner at a really nice little Italian restaurant, and then making our way down to 42nd to catch the subway back up for the evening.
Thursday began with a frantic call from my Floridian father, mentioning a Nathan Lane sighting on television. That, in its own right, took a good hour out of the day, but was certainly worth every delightful little pudgy, Jewish moment. Next, we cloaked ourselves in warmth, strolled out of the hostel and down the street, and stopped for breakfast at a little diner. We took a window seat and simply basked in the glory of people watching (especially when one of those people happened to be SNL's Fred Armisen, passing by and pausing to glance into the windows while I stared in disbelief and giggling wonder- because I think he's cute). After munching, we headed down to 59th and strolled through Rockefeller Center, Saks, and most delightfully, Sephora. I bought lip gloss. It is quite lovely.
Trolling down Fifth Avenue at a million miles an hour, we made it down towards 44th, where I got a call saying that my Mesmerist had finally made it into the city via bus, and was heading in my direction. We passed on another a few times (not my fault...), but finally met up- to my distinct pleasure, if I might add. We traversed a bit farther and stopped for coffee and pink lemonade (I'm not the greatest fan of hot drinks), and spent some time just talking and catching up. Another college chum/graduate managed to catch up with us in all of her splendor, and while my mother tromped back up to the hostel to find our tickets for the evening, the three of us terrorized the streets of NYC's theatre district, jumping into lobby after lobby, taking smug and smarmy pictures with our favorite theatrical gods, and indulging in general tom-foolery. We fought over the proper pronunciation of Brian F. O'Bryne's name, tried to sneak inside the shop door for Movin' Out, where they were ever-so-ironically "movin' out" (after a final performance on the 11th) and loading their sets into trucks and vans of various shapes and sizes. We tried to find rush tickets at every show imaginable, poked fun at our favorite homosexual couple currently running onstage (Can you guess, little goys?), and were thoroughly interested in Dianetic principles, as were illustrated in a fifteen-minute film screening at the Manhattan Headquarters for Scientology (Michael snuck in to ask if John or Tom were on hand to personally guide us in our journey of exploration. They, apparently, were not.)
[Editor's Note: I swear, as soon as my laptop is returned from the clutches of HP Customer Care, I will have these rumored photos to post and share and utterly rub in your proverbial faces. Seriously. I will gloat. In color.]
At the departure of Miss Dramatist herself came the first ounce of one-on-one time I had shared with Michael since our initial departure the week before. It was nice, I can assure you, even in its brevity. I "miss the crap out of him," something I find dishearteningly weak as a quality, but painfully sincere in its reality. So, that's that.
We met up with Mary again at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Factory (a supposed New York must; in reality, a not-so-must), where we shared our dinner with an enticingly pleasant view of Times Square at its bustling best. Finishing our meals, we pranced across the street to Toys-R-Us, and re-lived our woe-begotten childhoods with plenty of camera-snapping and ridiculous holiday-themed gifts to go around, all of which will be seen at a later date. Promise.
Fate then swept us closer to the Shubert Theatre, current home to the Eric Idle-penned Spamalot. We scattered through a few tiny theatrically-themed shopped, where I purchased items far above their recommended prices, and found things that I desperately wished I could have for my own, show recordings and t-shirts to abounding.
It was at this point when I was forced to say goodbye to my dear friend and companion, and we shared a nice moment on the shady corner of Port Authority, one that will be repeated in the future if it knows what's good for it. Ha.
I rushed back to the Shubert, where I climbed in, stowed far too much baggage under my tiny seat. I basked momentarily in the grandeur that is a tiny Broadway house, finding exquisite joy in both the proximity to the stage, and also in the lack of tiny little strips of paper signifying substitutes in the performance.
Original Cast Performances = Unbelievably Happy Kelley
I then turned my head and saw Mike Nichols. And froze. And looked again. He sat, and I ran downstairs to look at the lobby, and then back upstairs to look at Nichols. And then, the show began.
I have just a few things to say regarding the performance itself, as I choose not to genuinely ruin it for anyone who plans on seeing it in the future. I think I'll write a genuine review about it for Acting Two next semester, and I'll post my opinions at that point. Here's the rub- Seussical was a test-run for Idle's underlying pursuit, Spamalot. In terms of structure, presentation, characters, design, etcetera, the shows are parallels that fight for genius, but fall just short of achieving such goals. It was the star power, in earnest, that allowed Spamalot its Tony win last summer.
That being said, the show was wholly enjoyable. Hyde-Pierce, my eternal love, was not as deftly up to the task presented to him in act one, but managed to make a recovery in the second act that even I could justify. Azaria was astounding in his differing characterization, Curry was Curry, and Sara was the greatest legitimate diva I have ever seen. But it was Christian Borle, and more deftly, Christopher Sieber who genuinely made the experience an enjoyable one for me. The two were so honest and so willing to play along that I, of course, wish that Sieber wasn't gay. And that Borle wasn't dating Sutton Foster. But we'll push that aside momentarily.
Post-performance, Curry bolted and left me signature-less, which I rather expected to have happen, so I was left out in the cold merely waiting to see my beloved Sieber, and perhaps Ramirez, if I was ever-so-lucky.
The first one out was Azaria, who was kind enough to sign programs and simultaneously tickle the crowd with some Agador Spartacus crooning (a-la "The Birdcage"). Next was the diva-licious Sara, who signed the our programs, and simultaneously dropped her recent casting on "Grey's Anatomy." She was genuinely obliging, but obviously exhausted.
Finally, to my giddy and ultimate delight, Pierce came out of the stage door. He blustered through a few signatures, said some polite "thank-you"s, and then made his way in my direction. He took my program, started signing, while I interjected, "it was such a pleasure to finally get to see you perform live." He stopped, looked up, and smiled with a very genuine, "I really appreciate that." Then, we took a picture. And those of the Land Of Kelley rejoiced.
-I have to run momentarily. The conclusion when I return.
-Okay, back. And now, I shall continue...
By then, it was raining and ridiculously cold, but I was significantly happier than I had imagined. We jumped back on the subway, fearing that midnight would bring about the MTA strike and leave us without transport to La Guardia the next morning. Also affected by our quick jaunt back to the hostel was my inability to catch the 12:01 screening of "The Producers" at the Ziegfeld, which was my ultimate goal, but too freaking bad. We got back, tucked in, and were situated for the evening.
Friday morning, we awoke to find that the strike had been postponed, and we had public transit to wisk us away and through the city. We packed, dragged our suitcases down Broadway and back to the miniature diner, where we sat and munched once again. I decided it would be nice to trek down the street a little further to the next available bus stop, rather than subway-ing it one last time. The air was nice and crisp, and I wanted to take one more look at the architecture (We were in the Columbia section of the upper west side, so most of the surroundings were college-student oriented. Hot.). Who I didn't expect to see, passing by the bus stop with her dog, was Tony-winner and vocal grace Victoria Clark.
I love Victoria Clark. There, honestly, aren't a lot of women I would openly proclaim devotion for, but Victoria Clark is not one of those women. I think she is unbelievable. I was fighting to see Light In The Piazza from the moment I heard it was opening at the Vivian Beaumont, but that proved fruitless each and every trip we've made to the city. I love Victoria Clark.
And there she was, talking on her cell phone and walking her dog. Right next to me. She stopped, and I started to turn as if to speak and let her know of my admiration, and as I craned my neck around, she was gone.
Poor, sad Kelley.
But I saw her, and that was enough for me. I'd been gifted with several really enticing opportunities to see and meet people in those three days, and that was merely the icing on the cake. I will be eternally aware of just how much I crammed into this miniature trip, and how much fun it genuinely was.
(Hmm. I will certainly have more to divulge as I am rightfully returned to my laptop and such, but for now, that will suit.)
Wednesday was a motley rush of finding correct flight numbers and bustling back and forth in various travel scenarios. We finally landed in New York, where I checked my voicemail, finding that one element of my Northeastern Expedition was having second thoughts about city traveling. Besides being frustrated beyond all belief, my call to said party seemed to influence a bit more confidence and cooperation, and by the next morning, our plans were rather concrete.
Getting into the city was no difficult feat, but finding our hostel in twenty degree temperatures was not an adventure I'll soon forget. We settled in, bundled up, and subway-ed ourselves down to Broadway and 50th, where we traversed down my all-too-familiar Favorite Street In The Universe. We ended up near the TKTS booth, and Mary, non-chalantly, suggested that we peek to see what inexpensive tickets we could still find. Floored, yet utterly delighted, I found that there were still Putnum County Spelling Bee tickets for sale, FREAKED OUT, and went up to purchase two tickets of sheer glee. The server, however, had other plans: it knew I was at the counter, and simultaneously FREAKED OUT, leaving myself and everyone after me ticket-less and slightly less enthusiastic as I had been just moments earlier. Still, we wandered around for a bit longer, taking in dinner at a really nice little Italian restaurant, and then making our way down to 42nd to catch the subway back up for the evening.
Thursday began with a frantic call from my Floridian father, mentioning a Nathan Lane sighting on television. That, in its own right, took a good hour out of the day, but was certainly worth every delightful little pudgy, Jewish moment. Next, we cloaked ourselves in warmth, strolled out of the hostel and down the street, and stopped for breakfast at a little diner. We took a window seat and simply basked in the glory of people watching (especially when one of those people happened to be SNL's Fred Armisen, passing by and pausing to glance into the windows while I stared in disbelief and giggling wonder- because I think he's cute). After munching, we headed down to 59th and strolled through Rockefeller Center, Saks, and most delightfully, Sephora. I bought lip gloss. It is quite lovely.
Trolling down Fifth Avenue at a million miles an hour, we made it down towards 44th, where I got a call saying that my Mesmerist had finally made it into the city via bus, and was heading in my direction. We passed on another a few times (not my fault...), but finally met up- to my distinct pleasure, if I might add. We traversed a bit farther and stopped for coffee and pink lemonade (I'm not the greatest fan of hot drinks), and spent some time just talking and catching up. Another college chum/graduate managed to catch up with us in all of her splendor, and while my mother tromped back up to the hostel to find our tickets for the evening, the three of us terrorized the streets of NYC's theatre district, jumping into lobby after lobby, taking smug and smarmy pictures with our favorite theatrical gods, and indulging in general tom-foolery. We fought over the proper pronunciation of Brian F. O'Bryne's name, tried to sneak inside the shop door for Movin' Out, where they were ever-so-ironically "movin' out" (after a final performance on the 11th) and loading their sets into trucks and vans of various shapes and sizes. We tried to find rush tickets at every show imaginable, poked fun at our favorite homosexual couple currently running onstage (Can you guess, little goys?), and were thoroughly interested in Dianetic principles, as were illustrated in a fifteen-minute film screening at the Manhattan Headquarters for Scientology (Michael snuck in to ask if John or Tom were on hand to personally guide us in our journey of exploration. They, apparently, were not.)
[Editor's Note: I swear, as soon as my laptop is returned from the clutches of HP Customer Care, I will have these rumored photos to post and share and utterly rub in your proverbial faces. Seriously. I will gloat. In color.]
At the departure of Miss Dramatist herself came the first ounce of one-on-one time I had shared with Michael since our initial departure the week before. It was nice, I can assure you, even in its brevity. I "miss the crap out of him," something I find dishearteningly weak as a quality, but painfully sincere in its reality. So, that's that.
We met up with Mary again at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Factory (a supposed New York must; in reality, a not-so-must), where we shared our dinner with an enticingly pleasant view of Times Square at its bustling best. Finishing our meals, we pranced across the street to Toys-R-Us, and re-lived our woe-begotten childhoods with plenty of camera-snapping and ridiculous holiday-themed gifts to go around, all of which will be seen at a later date. Promise.
Fate then swept us closer to the Shubert Theatre, current home to the Eric Idle-penned Spamalot. We scattered through a few tiny theatrically-themed shopped, where I purchased items far above their recommended prices, and found things that I desperately wished I could have for my own, show recordings and t-shirts to abounding.
It was at this point when I was forced to say goodbye to my dear friend and companion, and we shared a nice moment on the shady corner of Port Authority, one that will be repeated in the future if it knows what's good for it. Ha.
I rushed back to the Shubert, where I climbed in, stowed far too much baggage under my tiny seat. I basked momentarily in the grandeur that is a tiny Broadway house, finding exquisite joy in both the proximity to the stage, and also in the lack of tiny little strips of paper signifying substitutes in the performance.
Original Cast Performances = Unbelievably Happy Kelley
I then turned my head and saw Mike Nichols. And froze. And looked again. He sat, and I ran downstairs to look at the lobby, and then back upstairs to look at Nichols. And then, the show began.
I have just a few things to say regarding the performance itself, as I choose not to genuinely ruin it for anyone who plans on seeing it in the future. I think I'll write a genuine review about it for Acting Two next semester, and I'll post my opinions at that point. Here's the rub- Seussical was a test-run for Idle's underlying pursuit, Spamalot. In terms of structure, presentation, characters, design, etcetera, the shows are parallels that fight for genius, but fall just short of achieving such goals. It was the star power, in earnest, that allowed Spamalot its Tony win last summer.
That being said, the show was wholly enjoyable. Hyde-Pierce, my eternal love, was not as deftly up to the task presented to him in act one, but managed to make a recovery in the second act that even I could justify. Azaria was astounding in his differing characterization, Curry was Curry, and Sara was the greatest legitimate diva I have ever seen. But it was Christian Borle, and more deftly, Christopher Sieber who genuinely made the experience an enjoyable one for me. The two were so honest and so willing to play along that I, of course, wish that Sieber wasn't gay. And that Borle wasn't dating Sutton Foster. But we'll push that aside momentarily.
Post-performance, Curry bolted and left me signature-less, which I rather expected to have happen, so I was left out in the cold merely waiting to see my beloved Sieber, and perhaps Ramirez, if I was ever-so-lucky.
The first one out was Azaria, who was kind enough to sign programs and simultaneously tickle the crowd with some Agador Spartacus crooning (a-la "The Birdcage"). Next was the diva-licious Sara, who signed the our programs, and simultaneously dropped her recent casting on "Grey's Anatomy." She was genuinely obliging, but obviously exhausted.
Finally, to my giddy and ultimate delight, Pierce came out of the stage door. He blustered through a few signatures, said some polite "thank-you"s, and then made his way in my direction. He took my program, started signing, while I interjected, "it was such a pleasure to finally get to see you perform live." He stopped, looked up, and smiled with a very genuine, "I really appreciate that." Then, we took a picture. And those of the Land Of Kelley rejoiced.
-I have to run momentarily. The conclusion when I return.
-Okay, back. And now, I shall continue...
By then, it was raining and ridiculously cold, but I was significantly happier than I had imagined. We jumped back on the subway, fearing that midnight would bring about the MTA strike and leave us without transport to La Guardia the next morning. Also affected by our quick jaunt back to the hostel was my inability to catch the 12:01 screening of "The Producers" at the Ziegfeld, which was my ultimate goal, but too freaking bad. We got back, tucked in, and were situated for the evening.
Friday morning, we awoke to find that the strike had been postponed, and we had public transit to wisk us away and through the city. We packed, dragged our suitcases down Broadway and back to the miniature diner, where we sat and munched once again. I decided it would be nice to trek down the street a little further to the next available bus stop, rather than subway-ing it one last time. The air was nice and crisp, and I wanted to take one more look at the architecture (We were in the Columbia section of the upper west side, so most of the surroundings were college-student oriented. Hot.). Who I didn't expect to see, passing by the bus stop with her dog, was Tony-winner and vocal grace Victoria Clark.
I love Victoria Clark. There, honestly, aren't a lot of women I would openly proclaim devotion for, but Victoria Clark is not one of those women. I think she is unbelievable. I was fighting to see Light In The Piazza from the moment I heard it was opening at the Vivian Beaumont, but that proved fruitless each and every trip we've made to the city. I love Victoria Clark.
And there she was, talking on her cell phone and walking her dog. Right next to me. She stopped, and I started to turn as if to speak and let her know of my admiration, and as I craned my neck around, she was gone.
Poor, sad Kelley.
But I saw her, and that was enough for me. I'd been gifted with several really enticing opportunities to see and meet people in those three days, and that was merely the icing on the cake. I will be eternally aware of just how much I crammed into this miniature trip, and how much fun it genuinely was.
(Hmm. I will certainly have more to divulge as I am rightfully returned to my laptop and such, but for now, that will suit.)
Saturday, December 17, 2005
INTERMISSION.
My laptop basically exploded last evening, so I'm pacing myself and dealing with appropriate bereavement issues. Beyond that, I will, at some point, have trip details ready to post after this seemingly-interminable hiatus (for me- not you).
A good trip, I can assure.
I am now sick and exhausted, however, so, to sleep I drift.
A good trip, I can assure.
I am now sick and exhausted, however, so, to sleep I drift.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
NYC.
Posting will be sporadic, if not non-existent, for the next few days, as I will be gloating mercilessly throughout the streets of New York. I will, of course, be simultaneously crushed as I wittiness true talent prancing about onstage, at which point I will be sure to drive myself into a bridge or something equally hard and deadly.
Seriously, though.
A veritable crap-load of photographs will obviously be taken, and some of them with real actors, hopefully. There will also be some "mushy romantic NYC photographs" (or so I hope), which would send My Little Icy Heart soaring. [Editor's Note: He called tonight and said, "Hey, babe," which was so ironic that it sent me reeling. I commented, and he freaked out and asked if it was "appropriate." Which, again, sent me reeling. It is so, so very weird to have someone in my life. Unbelievably weird.]
My flight leaves in less than twelve hours, and I'm still far from focused on packing. Basically finished, but far from focused. I hate being distracted by sixteen million factors that don't matter or shouldn't matter or won't matter but might just matter. They hold such dominion over my progress, and they certainly shouldn't be able to, yet they do. Without question.
With question. Whatever.
-Will he make it?
-Does he really want to be there?
-Am I annoying him?
-Will our reservations be what we expected them to be?
-What if understudies take over the performance?
-Will I get to make out with Tim Curry, or would that make Michael jealous?
-Would that make Elis jealous?
-Thank God I read all of those trashy Fearless books, because they've left me with a relative mental map of the city.
-Just how gay is Nathan Lane?
-How much did I want to jump Hugh Laurie when he started singing "Ain't She Sweet" on the show tonight?
-Is this why he refuses to read my blog?
-Will I totally screw up this trip?
-Am I ready him to meet a parent?
-Why the hell do I over-analyze EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE?
-Am I officially out of hotel stationary?
-Why are the Barenaked Ladies so damn amazing?
-How freaking amazing is this trip going to be?
-Will I have another insane celebrity sighting like at The Frogs?
-Can I go see The Producers at midnight at The Ziegfeld?
-Why does James Barbour have to be in LA right now?
-Which leading man in Spamalot would be the easiest to take advantage of?
-No wonder Michael doesn't read this stuff.
Alright. I'm done. Really. It's time to try and get some rest before I go absolutely insane. Which I've already started to do. Too late. Oh, well. Some rest will be a good thing, I think. More updates via AudioBlogger to come, I suppose.
Later.
Seriously, though.
A veritable crap-load of photographs will obviously be taken, and some of them with real actors, hopefully. There will also be some "mushy romantic NYC photographs" (or so I hope), which would send My Little Icy Heart soaring. [Editor's Note: He called tonight and said, "Hey, babe," which was so ironic that it sent me reeling. I commented, and he freaked out and asked if it was "appropriate." Which, again, sent me reeling. It is so, so very weird to have someone in my life. Unbelievably weird.]
My flight leaves in less than twelve hours, and I'm still far from focused on packing. Basically finished, but far from focused. I hate being distracted by sixteen million factors that don't matter or shouldn't matter or won't matter but might just matter. They hold such dominion over my progress, and they certainly shouldn't be able to, yet they do. Without question.
With question. Whatever.
-Will he make it?
-Does he really want to be there?
-Am I annoying him?
-Will our reservations be what we expected them to be?
-What if understudies take over the performance?
-Will I get to make out with Tim Curry, or would that make Michael jealous?
-Would that make Elis jealous?
-Thank God I read all of those trashy Fearless books, because they've left me with a relative mental map of the city.
-Just how gay is Nathan Lane?
-How much did I want to jump Hugh Laurie when he started singing "Ain't She Sweet" on the show tonight?
-Is this why he refuses to read my blog?
-Will I totally screw up this trip?
-Am I ready him to meet a parent?
-Why the hell do I over-analyze EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE?
-Am I officially out of hotel stationary?
-Why are the Barenaked Ladies so damn amazing?
-How freaking amazing is this trip going to be?
-Will I have another insane celebrity sighting like at The Frogs?
-Can I go see The Producers at midnight at The Ziegfeld?
-Why does James Barbour have to be in LA right now?
-Which leading man in Spamalot would be the easiest to take advantage of?
-No wonder Michael doesn't read this stuff.
Alright. I'm done. Really. It's time to try and get some rest before I go absolutely insane. Which I've already started to do. Too late. Oh, well. Some rest will be a good thing, I think. More updates via AudioBlogger to come, I suppose.
Later.
PEER PRESSURE ROCKS.
Post the first line from the first entry of each month to provide you with a YEAR IN REVIEW of sorts.
January:
It's the first day (afternoon, at this point) of 2005, and I, myself, am quite prepared for the New Year.
February:
Here I sit, awaiting none other than an escape from this wonderful nation where I can sit for hours on end, listening eagerly to an illiterate Texas oil man who may or may not have served his time in the Texas Air National Guard.
March:
What a waste of seven John Travolta Dollars.
April:
With multiple deaths and my Glaze Under Fire/Ross From Hell experience on Saturday, I was simply too exhausted to try and compute anything, let alone write up some mindless post about my meager existence.
May:
...And the fires of Hell are just beginning to consume my weakened mortal frame.
June:
Done.
July:
Call it disrespectful, but the California coast kicks every other God-forsaken shoreline to the curb.
August:
I think I've played through Songs For A New World at least six times today. That has to be a record.
September:
I'M POST #500, BE-OTCH.
October:
So, while we chilled with the Gators and Crocks, I noticed the Tiki masks.
November:
"I speak for him. Never had the gift myself. The words were there, but the words just sat inside me, never rose to leave. They just sat there. Many was the time-- especially with the inspiration of a well-turned lady-- that I wanted to make those words get up off their duffs, and get out of my insides and so some business. The gift of talking wasn't mine. The gift of talking so's to make someone move. And by move I mean to smile, to blink, to say 'yes, indeed' when they had just got done thinking 'no sir-ee, uh-uh...' I speak for him, because this gift was never mine."
December:
I'm a brunette. Scorn me as you must.
That was actually kind of fun. I'll have to do one next year, too.
January:
It's the first day (afternoon, at this point) of 2005, and I, myself, am quite prepared for the New Year.
February:
Here I sit, awaiting none other than an escape from this wonderful nation where I can sit for hours on end, listening eagerly to an illiterate Texas oil man who may or may not have served his time in the Texas Air National Guard.
March:
What a waste of seven John Travolta Dollars.
April:
With multiple deaths and my Glaze Under Fire/Ross From Hell experience on Saturday, I was simply too exhausted to try and compute anything, let alone write up some mindless post about my meager existence.
May:
...And the fires of Hell are just beginning to consume my weakened mortal frame.
June:
Done.
July:
Call it disrespectful, but the California coast kicks every other God-forsaken shoreline to the curb.
August:
I think I've played through Songs For A New World at least six times today. That has to be a record.
September:
I'M POST #500, BE-OTCH.
October:
So, while we chilled with the Gators and Crocks, I noticed the Tiki masks.
November:
"I speak for him. Never had the gift myself. The words were there, but the words just sat inside me, never rose to leave. They just sat there. Many was the time-- especially with the inspiration of a well-turned lady-- that I wanted to make those words get up off their duffs, and get out of my insides and so some business. The gift of talking wasn't mine. The gift of talking so's to make someone move. And by move I mean to smile, to blink, to say 'yes, indeed' when they had just got done thinking 'no sir-ee, uh-uh...' I speak for him, because this gift was never mine."
December:
I'm a brunette. Scorn me as you must.
That was actually kind of fun. I'll have to do one next year, too.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
PERPETUAL NAPPING 101.
As much as I'm going to be sick of it within a week, it's been nice to just rest. Sleep is something I was obviously lacking, but I had no idea just how much. I feel like I could live in bed for weeks on end with absolutely no remorse or concern for life otherwise.
Which is not the best feeling in the world, I'll acknowledge, but one I will certainly accommodate for a few days nonetheless.
I miss Flagler. I do. Genuinely. College has been, thus far, the greatest experience of my life. I need the freedom it provides me, and I desperately desire the company of the people I’ve been surrounded with (with very few exceptions, ironically enough).
And I’ve been ridiculously spoiled over the past weeks, with my full knowledge attached. Life has provided me with opportunities far beyond anything I could have wished for. I have the marginal success I could have hoped for with the department (grossly boastful as that may sound), I have some of the greatest companions money could buy (and certainly has, I’ll assume; those hussies…), and one of the most rapid-fire, engaging, and stirring relationships that could be dreamt of.
I suppose that stepping back for a few weeks allows me a more solidified appreciation for these extraordinary blessings that make up my current existence, but I want them- I need them- here with me now. I do. Certainly. And it will, without doubt, be a wonderful experience to share time with people who have been vacant from my life for these ironically short months, if not just to share with them the vitality that has suddenly become present within me, the budding confidence that those closest to me have begun to recognize. I am becoming the person I have desired to be for such a devastatingly long time, and whereas that’s a shocking situation, I don’t care. I am more content at this point in my life than I have been in such a very long time.
I am happy.
I am happy.
I am happy.
[Editor’s Note: I definitively need an iPod with a larger storage capacity. I have far, far beyond twenty little “gigs” of music, and it is killing me to remove some of my most treasured albums to make space for new friends. I need more space. Santa, be a dear.]
Which is not the best feeling in the world, I'll acknowledge, but one I will certainly accommodate for a few days nonetheless.
I miss Flagler. I do. Genuinely. College has been, thus far, the greatest experience of my life. I need the freedom it provides me, and I desperately desire the company of the people I’ve been surrounded with (with very few exceptions, ironically enough).
And I’ve been ridiculously spoiled over the past weeks, with my full knowledge attached. Life has provided me with opportunities far beyond anything I could have wished for. I have the marginal success I could have hoped for with the department (grossly boastful as that may sound), I have some of the greatest companions money could buy (and certainly has, I’ll assume; those hussies…), and one of the most rapid-fire, engaging, and stirring relationships that could be dreamt of.
I suppose that stepping back for a few weeks allows me a more solidified appreciation for these extraordinary blessings that make up my current existence, but I want them- I need them- here with me now. I do. Certainly. And it will, without doubt, be a wonderful experience to share time with people who have been vacant from my life for these ironically short months, if not just to share with them the vitality that has suddenly become present within me, the budding confidence that those closest to me have begun to recognize. I am becoming the person I have desired to be for such a devastatingly long time, and whereas that’s a shocking situation, I don’t care. I am more content at this point in my life than I have been in such a very long time.
I am happy.
I am happy.
I am happy.
[Editor’s Note: I definitively need an iPod with a larger storage capacity. I have far, far beyond twenty little “gigs” of music, and it is killing me to remove some of my most treasured albums to make space for new friends. I need more space. Santa, be a dear.]
Thursday, December 08, 2005
HOLY FREAKING LUNCHMEAT.
SPAMALOT.
DECEMBER 15TH.
ORCHESTRA ROW 18.
TIM CURRY.
DAVID HYDE PIERCE.
HANK AZARIA.
SARA RAMIREZ.
CHRISTIAN BORLE.
CHRISTOPHER SIEBER.
I THINK I'M GOING TO HAVE A MOTHER-EFFING HEART ATTACK.
DECEMBER 15TH.
ORCHESTRA ROW 18.
TIM CURRY.
DAVID HYDE PIERCE.
HANK AZARIA.
SARA RAMIREZ.
CHRISTIAN BORLE.
CHRISTOPHER SIEBER.
I THINK I'M GOING TO HAVE A MOTHER-EFFING HEART ATTACK.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Monday, December 05, 2005
AS TIME GOES BY.
A week of firsts, and everything around me seems odd yet eerily normal.
Details are entirely unimportant, but the motivation beyond them is slightly more important. I spent the day in general fear and aggravation, but after spending more time in the arms of one I care deeply for, my apprehension has begun to falter, loosening its grasp on my over-exhausted logic and rationality.
If only my stomach would dare to cooperate.
Alright. To sleep I go, as 8:00 AM holds my first ever college exam. Fun.
Details are entirely unimportant, but the motivation beyond them is slightly more important. I spent the day in general fear and aggravation, but after spending more time in the arms of one I care deeply for, my apprehension has begun to falter, loosening its grasp on my over-exhausted logic and rationality.
If only my stomach would dare to cooperate.
Alright. To sleep I go, as 8:00 AM holds my first ever college exam. Fun.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
CARPE DIEM.
FLAGLER COLLEGE SENIOR CONSERVATORY PRODUCTIONS BEGIN TONIGHT.
BE THERE, OR BE A GOSH-DARN SQUARE.
VICKI'S SHOW WILL KICK ASS.
BUT DON'T WATCH ME.
SERIOUSLY.
UGH.
BE THERE, OR BE A GOSH-DARN SQUARE.
VICKI'S SHOW WILL KICK ASS.
BUT DON'T WATCH ME.
SERIOUSLY.
UGH.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
THE LOW-DOWN, Y'ALL.
A weekend at home was good, but I'm saddled with the desperate desire to find my way back to Flagler.
I want to be back. Now.
Now.
Now.
I want to be back. Now.
Now.
Now.
Friday, November 25, 2005
I WANT TO BE A PRODUCER.
The new movie recording for The Producers is unbelievable.
I love it.
I am incredibly happy. And not just because of Nathan. But he's amazing.
(AND UMA SUCKS NASTY ASS.)
There. I said it.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
HAPPY FREAKING THANKSGIVING.
ON THIS DAY OF GIVING THANKS, THERE ARE MANY THINGS TO BE "THANK"-FUL FOR. HERE ARE A FEW OF MY ALL-TIME FAVORITES:
I am thankful for the crayons it would take to make this picture look as life-like as the my non-existent room. Because that's what I'm going to do- draw all over the plywood sitting on my floor, and hope to God that someone sells it to a gallery for millions of dollars so that I can buy myself a FREAKING BED.
I am thankful for Stove Top stuffing, because I learned how to stir water and spice together to make fluffy, carb-infested goodness.
I am thankful for the wonderful people I share my college life with. They fill my days with adventure and excitement, and my nights with nothing, because there is nothing to do at night in St. Augustine. So, we are bored together, and I would have it no other way.
I am thankful for my best friend, because Elise knows how to drop it like it's hot. Or cold. Depending on the current temperature.
I am thankful for Michael, as he is waiting for me to see RENT. Which is a God-like sacrifice in my own personal and hence expert opinion. And for other reasons, too, I guess.
I am thankful for the healing power of Ginger Ale. It needs no further explanation.
But most of all, I am thankful for my car and the enabling power it has to get me far, far away from Brigadoon. Which is Rachel's horribly-adequate name for Dunedin. Don't dispute her. Or me.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Sunday, November 20, 2005
MR. READ
What can I say? Words don't do justice to the two weeks I've spent with him.
I've never had company who I could sit with and listen to endlessly. I could spend hours engulfed and engaged in the stories he shares, in the life which he's so willingly imparted to me through conversation. I find myself wishing I could engage him the way he intrigues me. We find difficulty in recognizing our own positive qualities, yet I find endless things in him I can admire and respect and enjoy. And he, for whatever reason, sees something in me that allows him to be comfortable with my presence and my undeniably deviated personality.
Since I've spent time with Michael, I sing more often. I find myself wrapped up in thought, not of the most trivial nature, but of who and what I need to expect of myself as an individual. I am attracted to him, I am compelled by him, and, for the moment, I am so unbelievably comfortable whenever he's around me. I want more of him, more of the person he makes me feel like.
I'm corny, stupid, floating, cheesy, gawky, shy, and it's all because of him.
All his fault.
I've never had company who I could sit with and listen to endlessly. I could spend hours engulfed and engaged in the stories he shares, in the life which he's so willingly imparted to me through conversation. I find myself wishing I could engage him the way he intrigues me. We find difficulty in recognizing our own positive qualities, yet I find endless things in him I can admire and respect and enjoy. And he, for whatever reason, sees something in me that allows him to be comfortable with my presence and my undeniably deviated personality.
Since I've spent time with Michael, I sing more often. I find myself wrapped up in thought, not of the most trivial nature, but of who and what I need to expect of myself as an individual. I am attracted to him, I am compelled by him, and, for the moment, I am so unbelievably comfortable whenever he's around me. I want more of him, more of the person he makes me feel like.
I'm corny, stupid, floating, cheesy, gawky, shy, and it's all because of him.
All his fault.
Friday, November 18, 2005
NOT SO AMAZING.
-Saw Ben Rush making pizzas at the restaurant we stopped at. Laughed my freaking head off.
-Movie was adequate. Visually, I loved it. Musically, I was unimpressed. Company, although nice, was disappointing. Ugh.
-Don't know what I'm thinking. Not sure if that's a good sign or an incredibly bad thing.
I think I'm just slightly downtrodden about the evening in general. Seventeen million factors combine to force me into a semi-depressed stupor, and then allow me to feel like an irrational pansy at such pathetic thought. I need to get over myself, get over this, and deal with what is in front of me.
Clear and concise was never my goal. Get over it.
-Movie was adequate. Visually, I loved it. Musically, I was unimpressed. Company, although nice, was disappointing. Ugh.
-Don't know what I'm thinking. Not sure if that's a good sign or an incredibly bad thing.
I think I'm just slightly downtrodden about the evening in general. Seventeen million factors combine to force me into a semi-depressed stupor, and then allow me to feel like an irrational pansy at such pathetic thought. I need to get over myself, get over this, and deal with what is in front of me.
Clear and concise was never my goal. Get over it.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
LIFE IS GOOD.
I can't facilitate diction of any other sort- there are not words to categorize life thus far. Good, although bland and general, is the only classification that adequately fits the past weeks. Life is good. I am happy, I am (relatively) healthy, I am safe. There's not much more to be concerned with.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Sunday, November 13, 2005
THUS FAR.
Ugh. Really nice conversation with Casey today. I'm glad that I've got a relationship with him that can just pick up immediately where one conversation leaves off. I need the carefree sibling thing that we share. I'd be pathetic without it, I think.
Ten days have provided me with more literary fodder than I daresay I ever could have wished for. I could say that I feel stable and tranquil and perfectly content in the life I am leading, but I would be lying. I'm not. I don't. And I never will be.
That's certainly not to say that I'm not enjoying what's happening. My present company is amazing- a person I cannot allow myself to look towards without admiration, compassion, and highly-deserved respect. Nor am I worried about what that relationship will provide in the future.
But that is not the sole facet of my life in the present, nor can it be my sole fixation mentally. I cannot let it be, and therefore, it will not be.
Indulgences, although severely draining on my patience, will prove to be something I am proud to be a part of, I think. Although I'm not a fan of the script itself, I feel I have some opportunity to expand myself as a performer, and maybe even create a name for myself.
If that's even what I want.
I look at the human being who sits here, typing without general fervor or protruding desire for achievement, and wonder where and how she will hold sway over her universe. What is it that she can provide that no one else has the capacity for? Is she destined for greatness? Or merely anonymity? And does any of it really matter to her? For, in total honesty, the girl sitting in front of me could simply do what was set out before her, never asking questions of any particular importance or significance. She could do any of a million things without trying, without yearning or passion, and maybe it wouldn't even phase her. Which is probably the most frightening part of the whole scenario.
I'm entirely exhausted, to the degree where even thinking has become strenuous.
I get no kick from mental strain.
Ten days have provided me with more literary fodder than I daresay I ever could have wished for. I could say that I feel stable and tranquil and perfectly content in the life I am leading, but I would be lying. I'm not. I don't. And I never will be.
That's certainly not to say that I'm not enjoying what's happening. My present company is amazing- a person I cannot allow myself to look towards without admiration, compassion, and highly-deserved respect. Nor am I worried about what that relationship will provide in the future.
But that is not the sole facet of my life in the present, nor can it be my sole fixation mentally. I cannot let it be, and therefore, it will not be.
Indulgences, although severely draining on my patience, will prove to be something I am proud to be a part of, I think. Although I'm not a fan of the script itself, I feel I have some opportunity to expand myself as a performer, and maybe even create a name for myself.
If that's even what I want.
I look at the human being who sits here, typing without general fervor or protruding desire for achievement, and wonder where and how she will hold sway over her universe. What is it that she can provide that no one else has the capacity for? Is she destined for greatness? Or merely anonymity? And does any of it really matter to her? For, in total honesty, the girl sitting in front of me could simply do what was set out before her, never asking questions of any particular importance or significance. She could do any of a million things without trying, without yearning or passion, and maybe it wouldn't even phase her. Which is probably the most frightening part of the whole scenario.
I'm entirely exhausted, to the degree where even thinking has become strenuous.
I get no kick from mental strain.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
NOOOOOO!!!!!!
They're canceling Arrested Development, only the greatest comedy on television since rocks were invented.
And my life is over.
And my life is over.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
RIGHT NOW.
I feel safe. Secure. Wanted. Appreciated. Cared for. Desired.
Human.
I feel real, tonight.
And it feels really, really nice.
Human.
I feel real, tonight.
And it feels really, really nice.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
AND THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON SLEEP.
I think all I needed was some rest, some water, and a little bit of introspective reflection.
I will continue to get better as the day progresses, I have promised myself.
There are a few things I know about myself. One of them is that I am a wretchedly stoic individual when the need to be somewhat detached arises. Stoic to the degree that I may remain level and temperate in my feasible human emotions, if not in my physical conditions. In this case, my body said, ever so kindly, "what the hell is going on? What are we doing? Do we know what's going on? Are you even listening to me?"
And whereas I am normally a good listener, my body decided that, indeed, I was not as good as I thought I was. And thus the sickness.
I'm realizing that by sinking into my plume bedding this afternoon, I allowed myself the time I needed to be human again. I'm thinking, and although it's still at a sluggish pace, it's thinking nonetheless. I've also awoken and found myself ready to consume food. Not frightened by it or sickened at the thought, but knowledgeable and aware of the fact that I need something in my system if I want to continue, oh, I don't know, living.
I guess I enjoy being vague when I type. It keeps even my generally understood feelings at bay, and allows a more realistic image of current going-ons. But, I assure you, as soon as I am definite and positive in my new situation, I will most certainly gush and gawk with appropriate fervor. At the moment, I'm just waiting.
Ugh. I have to remind myself that only five days of relative "waiting" have passed. And now, I need to get over it.
Okay. Done.
Waiting is good for me.
I will continue to get better as the day progresses, I have promised myself.
There are a few things I know about myself. One of them is that I am a wretchedly stoic individual when the need to be somewhat detached arises. Stoic to the degree that I may remain level and temperate in my feasible human emotions, if not in my physical conditions. In this case, my body said, ever so kindly, "what the hell is going on? What are we doing? Do we know what's going on? Are you even listening to me?"
And whereas I am normally a good listener, my body decided that, indeed, I was not as good as I thought I was. And thus the sickness.
I'm realizing that by sinking into my plume bedding this afternoon, I allowed myself the time I needed to be human again. I'm thinking, and although it's still at a sluggish pace, it's thinking nonetheless. I've also awoken and found myself ready to consume food. Not frightened by it or sickened at the thought, but knowledgeable and aware of the fact that I need something in my system if I want to continue, oh, I don't know, living.
I guess I enjoy being vague when I type. It keeps even my generally understood feelings at bay, and allows a more realistic image of current going-ons. But, I assure you, as soon as I am definite and positive in my new situation, I will most certainly gush and gawk with appropriate fervor. At the moment, I'm just waiting.
Ugh. I have to remind myself that only five days of relative "waiting" have passed. And now, I need to get over it.
Okay. Done.
Waiting is good for me.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
BECAUSE YOU HAD TO BE A BIG SHOT.
I love how I lack the capacity to look like a normal human being in photographs.
Fun!
Fun!
Saturday, November 05, 2005
AHH! LOOK OUT! IT'S CHANGE!!!
Sick. Not sick.
Sick. Not sick.
Sick. Not sick.
I can just see that kangaroo in front of me looking puzzled and saying, "WTF, mate?"
It would just be nice to have a logical explanation in front of me screaming, "here's why, you dumb be-otch! Ha! Ha, ha!"
But no. Nothing. No explanation, no kangaroo. Nothing.
I am, quite obviously, a disturbed individual.
I know that I am over-stressed, but thus far, I've dealt well with it. And in comparison to other individuals, I am HARDLY over-stressed.
I'm not upset- far from it. I'm happy with my situation in life, I'm growing comfortable with the format and daily routine I seem to inhabit, and it's becoming what I guessed it would at some point become.
And then it hits me: Routine. Boredom. Stationary. Three words that do not sit well in the pit of my stomach, churning around with grudge and regret and fear. Fear. I need something different in my life. I crave it.
And this week, I have approached two opportunities for just that- change. Direct, brazen change. Well, not ordinarily so brazen, but certainly brazen for the perpetually-inexperienced Kelley.
Change Number One is personal, unexpected, and still very new. A nice new, mind you, but new nonetheless.
Change Number Two is ambitious, downright disconcerting, and not what I expected from myself, but what others seemed to have expected from me all along. Hence disconcerting. And I think I have no way of pulling myself away from it, as it appears to be the sensible route in my existence thus far.
Change is good, right?
Sick. Not sick.
Sick. Not sick.
I can just see that kangaroo in front of me looking puzzled and saying, "WTF, mate?"
It would just be nice to have a logical explanation in front of me screaming, "here's why, you dumb be-otch! Ha! Ha, ha!"
But no. Nothing. No explanation, no kangaroo. Nothing.
I am, quite obviously, a disturbed individual.
I know that I am over-stressed, but thus far, I've dealt well with it. And in comparison to other individuals, I am HARDLY over-stressed.
I'm not upset- far from it. I'm happy with my situation in life, I'm growing comfortable with the format and daily routine I seem to inhabit, and it's becoming what I guessed it would at some point become.
And then it hits me: Routine. Boredom. Stationary. Three words that do not sit well in the pit of my stomach, churning around with grudge and regret and fear. Fear. I need something different in my life. I crave it.
And this week, I have approached two opportunities for just that- change. Direct, brazen change. Well, not ordinarily so brazen, but certainly brazen for the perpetually-inexperienced Kelley.
Change Number One is personal, unexpected, and still very new. A nice new, mind you, but new nonetheless.
Change Number Two is ambitious, downright disconcerting, and not what I expected from myself, but what others seemed to have expected from me all along. Hence disconcerting. And I think I have no way of pulling myself away from it, as it appears to be the sensible route in my existence thus far.
Change is good, right?
BLURRY.
I don't understand a lot of what happened today.
I was sick this morning, in the most physical of senses.
I made it through class, which was quite a feat. I managed to maintain a relative grasp of the surrounding world through breakfast, at which point I realized the gravity of my exhaustion. I slept for an hour. Woke up. Pulled through class, and stopped to chat with good people. Made it back to the room. I slept for an hour. Worked my FINAL daily Box Office shift, left, and slept for two hours. Ushering. Box Office. Physical revulsion. Pain to the point that I'm not sure what's wrong, but I know for certain that I will not be able to approach food for some time.
And then, we drove. We walked. He talked. It was such a nice, peaceful sort of scenario to end the week, one that I hope gets repeated.
To sleep. But probably not, perchance, to dream.
Then again, maybe.
I was sick this morning, in the most physical of senses.
I made it through class, which was quite a feat. I managed to maintain a relative grasp of the surrounding world through breakfast, at which point I realized the gravity of my exhaustion. I slept for an hour. Woke up. Pulled through class, and stopped to chat with good people. Made it back to the room. I slept for an hour. Worked my FINAL daily Box Office shift, left, and slept for two hours. Ushering. Box Office. Physical revulsion. Pain to the point that I'm not sure what's wrong, but I know for certain that I will not be able to approach food for some time.
And then, we drove. We walked. He talked. It was such a nice, peaceful sort of scenario to end the week, one that I hope gets repeated.
To sleep. But probably not, perchance, to dream.
Then again, maybe.
Friday, November 04, 2005
SIGH.
Cannot breathe.
Cannot type.
Cannot think.
Cannot stop this compulsory grin that's spreading across my face.
I am such a loser.
Cannot type.
Cannot think.
Cannot stop this compulsory grin that's spreading across my face.
I am such a loser.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
BECAUSE THIS GIFT WAS NEVER MINE.
"I speak for him. Never had the gift myself. The words were there, but the words just sat inside me, never rose to leave. They just sat there. Many was the time-- especially with the inspiration of a well-turned lady-- that I wanted to make those words get up off their duffs, and get out of my insides and so some business. The gift of talking wasn't mine. The gift of talking so's to make someone move. And by move I mean to smile, to blink, to say 'yes, indeed' when they had just got done thinking 'no sir-ee, uh-uh...' I speak for him, because this gift was never mine."
-John Orlock, Indulgences In The Louisville Harem
Saturday, October 29, 2005
REASON NUMBER SEVENTEEN MILLION FOR HATING PEOPLE:
THEY SUCK. PERIOD.
Why am I so easily disappointed in people?
It kills me that I lose respect for individuals in such a miniscule span of time, and I'm entirely sick of sitting through the whole process over and over again.
I hate this.
I hate this.
Why am I so easily disappointed in people?
It kills me that I lose respect for individuals in such a miniscule span of time, and I'm entirely sick of sitting through the whole process over and over again.
I hate this.
I hate this.
Friday, October 28, 2005
MIDNIGHT BREAKFAST=FOOD FOR THE DAY.
I find it rather disappointing when my only opportunity for food consumption is cradled in an excuse for Scary College Students to dress up as...Well...Slutty College Students.
I stopped in for five minutes, realized that I was going to find myself bored to death (no matter how many people seemed to like my "Costume"), and instead, sat at Steak-n-Shake with Michael. I had a Grilled Cheese Sandwich.
It was lovely.
Seriously, it was nice to have a real conversation with someone. It was shop talk, mind you, but it was more intelligent and interesting than most of the banter I've shared with individuals here in my short time at Flagler. Overall, good stuff.
And tomorrow (today) holds only Phyllis' class at eleven. Not that I really want to attend, but it's at least nice to know that Don Robbins is more committed to the Golf Team than to teaching Liberal Arts Math. But then again, who wouldn't be? It's freaking LIBERAL ARTS MATH, for Christ's sake!
It's nice to know that I can still hear music being played (Read: BLASTED) from three floors below. I bet a bass line like that could chip the paint off of the ceiling, shatter the Tiffany stained-glass windows, AND bring Christopher Walken as Henry Flagler out to shout, "More Naked Babies!"
I have a fever, and the only cure is-
ARROWED!!!
I stopped in for five minutes, realized that I was going to find myself bored to death (no matter how many people seemed to like my "Costume"), and instead, sat at Steak-n-Shake with Michael. I had a Grilled Cheese Sandwich.
It was lovely.
Seriously, it was nice to have a real conversation with someone. It was shop talk, mind you, but it was more intelligent and interesting than most of the banter I've shared with individuals here in my short time at Flagler. Overall, good stuff.
And tomorrow (today) holds only Phyllis' class at eleven. Not that I really want to attend, but it's at least nice to know that Don Robbins is more committed to the Golf Team than to teaching Liberal Arts Math. But then again, who wouldn't be? It's freaking LIBERAL ARTS MATH, for Christ's sake!
It's nice to know that I can still hear music being played (Read: BLASTED) from three floors below. I bet a bass line like that could chip the paint off of the ceiling, shatter the Tiffany stained-glass windows, AND bring Christopher Walken as Henry Flagler out to shout, "More Naked Babies!"
I have a fever, and the only cure is-
ARROWED!!!
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
BECAUSE THERE'S "CRAZY" IN THE BREAKDOWN.
Why is it that everyone around me is losing it?
How is it that I am the sane, calm, and contained one? What the hell is going on?
I am immensely supportive of everyone, but it baffles me that everyone finds themselves simultaneously falling apart. Perhaps it's something in the air. Or the water. Maybe it's the fact that I don't seem to have the capacity to make logical, rational thoughts at the moment.
I've listened to so much talking and sadness and hurt emotion over the past few days that I'm amazed I've kept myself above it. I don't need to drag myself into this radical, intensive emotion that lingers over the heads of these afflicted individuals, and yet, I genuinely hope that they realize I am still here to sympathize and lend an ever-affectionate ear.
And to sit through the crazy talk.
Because that's what I'm here for.
How is it that I am the sane, calm, and contained one? What the hell is going on?
I am immensely supportive of everyone, but it baffles me that everyone finds themselves simultaneously falling apart. Perhaps it's something in the air. Or the water. Maybe it's the fact that I don't seem to have the capacity to make logical, rational thoughts at the moment.
I've listened to so much talking and sadness and hurt emotion over the past few days that I'm amazed I've kept myself above it. I don't need to drag myself into this radical, intensive emotion that lingers over the heads of these afflicted individuals, and yet, I genuinely hope that they realize I am still here to sympathize and lend an ever-affectionate ear.
And to sit through the crazy talk.
Because that's what I'm here for.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
FRIDAY NIGHT.
---Drove to Jacksonville, which was an adventure in itself. Did not die.
---Stopped at a mall of some sort (The Avenues, perhaps?) and spent $19 on a bright green corduroy jacket. Torrential rain locked us in the store for some time, but eventually, we were forced to make a break for it. Screamed our way through the streets and into The Cheesecake Factory.
---Stood, dripping, while we waited for a table. Had a fantastic meal, took ridiculous pictures, and paid far too much (as was expected).
---Godiva Chocolate Cheesecake is amazing.
---Traveled some distance (and almost died several times) to Tinsel Town and watched "Waiting." Totally worth the wait, and insanely cute, if not slightly horrifying.
---Crammed into the car and raced to Fuel, where we met some insanely cool people, took more ridiculous pictures, and allowed cute strangers to hit on Rachel, but only as we walked out the door. Managed to get picked up and carried around after we got out the door.
---Back to the dorm. Tired. Sleep. Now...
---Stopped at a mall of some sort (The Avenues, perhaps?) and spent $19 on a bright green corduroy jacket. Torrential rain locked us in the store for some time, but eventually, we were forced to make a break for it. Screamed our way through the streets and into The Cheesecake Factory.
---Stood, dripping, while we waited for a table. Had a fantastic meal, took ridiculous pictures, and paid far too much (as was expected).
---Godiva Chocolate Cheesecake is amazing.
---Traveled some distance (and almost died several times) to Tinsel Town and watched "Waiting." Totally worth the wait, and insanely cute, if not slightly horrifying.
---Crammed into the car and raced to Fuel, where we met some insanely cool people, took more ridiculous pictures, and allowed cute strangers to hit on Rachel, but only as we walked out the door. Managed to get picked up and carried around after we got out the door.
---Back to the dorm. Tired. Sleep. Now...
Thursday, October 20, 2005
STEPHEN, I LOVE YOU.
I am madly in love with Stephen Colbert. And he's deaf in one ear.
Boo-hoo.
I adore him.
ONE OF THOSE DAYS.
I had a fellow cast member speak of today as "one of those times when everything you are sure of becomes fair game for questioning."
[Editor's Note: I took some liberty with the quote- sue my ass. And then, get over it.]
There are certainly moments when I will myself towards failure for the sake of failure. Today didn't seem to be one of them: I woke up, and I honestly started off in a reasonable manner, determined to push my way through any lingering negativity I was still facing.
But, within an hour of Wakened Glory, I was already dreading Indulgences rehearsal. It's become something I genuinely fear, simply because I feel so very displaced no matter the effort I put forward. It's the most challenging part I've ever dealt with, the largest role I've ever had (although I'd never admit it in conversation for my own vanity's sake), and I find myself with a group of people I'm thoroughly intimidated by.
With the sudden and unexpected departure of Matt Faison (Damn you, Wilma, and all the insanity you bring!), The L.H. suggested that we allow ourselves some "getting to know you" time. Reasonable, but wholly intimidating when you are a socially inept individual, such as I.
And, of course, it was. My uncomfortable silence is often interpreted as arrogance; why is that? If I had intentions of arrogance, people would certainly know about it. Nevertheless, I was provided with far more information than I ever knew or had the ambition to know about most of the individuals in the room (Although one revelation, that which I think few took for any kind of magnitude, struck me as quite sincere, and something I genuinely felt empathetic towards).
I wish I found myself comfortable around people. I wish I was exuberant, lively, and enjoyed by those I spend time with. I wish confidence came easily to me.
But it doesn't.
Which is why I sit here typing at 2:00 AM to an audience that will never care enough to read my thoughts.
I guess it's easier that way.
[Editor's Note: I took some liberty with the quote- sue my ass. And then, get over it.]
There are certainly moments when I will myself towards failure for the sake of failure. Today didn't seem to be one of them: I woke up, and I honestly started off in a reasonable manner, determined to push my way through any lingering negativity I was still facing.
But, within an hour of Wakened Glory, I was already dreading Indulgences rehearsal. It's become something I genuinely fear, simply because I feel so very displaced no matter the effort I put forward. It's the most challenging part I've ever dealt with, the largest role I've ever had (although I'd never admit it in conversation for my own vanity's sake), and I find myself with a group of people I'm thoroughly intimidated by.
With the sudden and unexpected departure of Matt Faison (Damn you, Wilma, and all the insanity you bring!), The L.H. suggested that we allow ourselves some "getting to know you" time. Reasonable, but wholly intimidating when you are a socially inept individual, such as I.
And, of course, it was. My uncomfortable silence is often interpreted as arrogance; why is that? If I had intentions of arrogance, people would certainly know about it. Nevertheless, I was provided with far more information than I ever knew or had the ambition to know about most of the individuals in the room (Although one revelation, that which I think few took for any kind of magnitude, struck me as quite sincere, and something I genuinely felt empathetic towards).
I wish I found myself comfortable around people. I wish I was exuberant, lively, and enjoyed by those I spend time with. I wish confidence came easily to me.
But it doesn't.
Which is why I sit here typing at 2:00 AM to an audience that will never care enough to read my thoughts.
I guess it's easier that way.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
BECAUSE FLAT STANLEY IS AMAZING.
Jon Stewart is cool, too.
[Editor's Note: I have to admit that I am loving The Colbert Report. Maybe just Stephen Colbert. Maybe it's his "It's French, Bitch" quote. But that's not my point. It's wonderful, and that's that. The end.]
Monday, October 17, 2005
THIS IS WHY KELLEY DOESN'T TALK ON PHONES.
Because bad things happen when Blogger is just a touch-tone away.
Friday, October 14, 2005
BATTLE OF THE "BAND."
Okay, I was a bad participant.
I showed up for the last band. And then walked along the beach for roughly half an hour with Rachel.
Baaaad Kelley.
I'm making my way down to Dunedin later on today. Which should be fun.
Ugh. Math time.
I showed up for the last band. And then walked along the beach for roughly half an hour with Rachel.
Baaaad Kelley.
I'm making my way down to Dunedin later on today. Which should be fun.
Ugh. Math time.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
FLORENCE.
I've never found myself so lost in character that I'm afraid to come up for air- what it might do to me, how I'll have to force myself to interact with the world at large.
I'm frightened.
Genuinely, truly, horribly frightened.
I want her to go away.
I'm frightened.
Genuinely, truly, horribly frightened.
I want her to go away.
Monday, October 10, 2005
INDULGENCES IN THE FLAGLER HAREM.
I had an interesting pseudo-chat-in-passing with Matt Faison. I sort of knew that it was bound to happen. It's difficult to avoid your director in the auditorium parking lot.
Awkward, and difficult.
I know I'm not the outward, vocal individual of the group. I understand that I'm the one that doesn't necessarily fit in. And I continually face that. And I knew that he was aware of that. I just didn't know that he seems to understand that, too.
I don't think I've ever worked with a director who felt the need to assist me in justifying my own value. I have genuinely, without deviation, felt absolutely useless among that group of people. As though everything I'm doing is wrong, every movement I make is too calculated, not calculated enough, lacking whatever it is I'm supposed to have. And it kills me.
When he walks over to me this evening, his movement as calculated as my initial avoidance from his rather compassionate air, he plants himself and questions me. Literally, boldly, honestly questions me. I, of course, have no course of action but to avoid his human emotion like the plague, mumbling something like "I'm still feeling my way around," or other such rational garbage.
He looks at me, says words that I vaguely recall (yet could recite verbatim), and puts his hand on my shoulder.
Simple.
Profound.
Meaningless? Astutely meaningful.
Still, undeniably awkward.
I hate it when people care.
[Editor's Note: "Three's Company" has to be the most senseless, crazy, time-consuming guilty pleasure. And, dammit, I miss the crap out of John Ritter.]
Awkward, and difficult.
I know I'm not the outward, vocal individual of the group. I understand that I'm the one that doesn't necessarily fit in. And I continually face that. And I knew that he was aware of that. I just didn't know that he seems to understand that, too.
I don't think I've ever worked with a director who felt the need to assist me in justifying my own value. I have genuinely, without deviation, felt absolutely useless among that group of people. As though everything I'm doing is wrong, every movement I make is too calculated, not calculated enough, lacking whatever it is I'm supposed to have. And it kills me.
When he walks over to me this evening, his movement as calculated as my initial avoidance from his rather compassionate air, he plants himself and questions me. Literally, boldly, honestly questions me. I, of course, have no course of action but to avoid his human emotion like the plague, mumbling something like "I'm still feeling my way around," or other such rational garbage.
He looks at me, says words that I vaguely recall (yet could recite verbatim), and puts his hand on my shoulder.
Simple.
Profound.
Meaningless? Astutely meaningful.
Still, undeniably awkward.
I hate it when people care.
[Editor's Note: "Three's Company" has to be the most senseless, crazy, time-consuming guilty pleasure. And, dammit, I miss the crap out of John Ritter.]
Saturday, October 08, 2005
WHAT???!!! JB??!!!
I was channel flipping, and I caught a glimpse of Tom Cavanagh. I thought, "wow, Ed, it's good to see you on television again."
And then, someone else came onscreen.
It wasn't God, but it was very, very close.
It was James. My glorious, beautiful James.
And I was forced to leave the room for "medical reasons."
(I had to dye my hair.)
James Barbour's movie-that-never-was, "Alchemy," is playing for the first time on ABC Family this weekend. And I will be watching it OVER AND OVER again.
And I'll watch the clip of him performing "This Is The Moment" (HA!) OVER AND OVER again.
And then, someone else came onscreen.
It wasn't God, but it was very, very close.
It was James. My glorious, beautiful James.
And I was forced to leave the room for "medical reasons."
(I had to dye my hair.)
James Barbour's movie-that-never-was, "Alchemy," is playing for the first time on ABC Family this weekend. And I will be watching it OVER AND OVER again.
And I'll watch the clip of him performing "This Is The Moment" (HA!) OVER AND OVER again.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Monday, October 03, 2005
HA.
Listening to Richard Cheese. He's amazing.
Oh, yeah.
But, then again, he always has been.
Ah, repetition.
Oh, yeah.
But, then again, he always has been.
Ah, repetition.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
ALLIGATOR FARM.
So, while we chilled with the Gators and Crocks, I noticed the Tiki masks. And I decided that they would look really cool in some sort of movie trailer.Little did I know that the Wedding Crashers website has a "Trailer Crashers" promo, in which you can put a photo of yourself and/or a friend into the trailer.
Needless to say, it's amazing.Here are the two Tiki masks having fun with Chris Walken.
But, then again, who wouldn't have fun with Chris Walken?
Catch Lord Kookamunga and Chief Rublerocka in "Trailer Crashers." Seriously. Do it. NOW.
xFISHCOREx
Hmm.
I've no idea what the weekend shall hold.
Something grand, I imagine.
And my fish is amazing.
(I can't wait to find out what my roommate thinks. Ha.)
I've no idea what the weekend shall hold.
Something grand, I imagine.
And my fish is amazing.
(I can't wait to find out what my roommate thinks. Ha.)
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
STANDARD ENGLISH IS STUPID.
Tuesdays and Thursdays suddenly scream of "relaxation time."
I love life.
And dropping classes.
I love life.
And dropping classes.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
"YOUR HAND IS DYING."
I do adore House, but what, dear God, is with the corny lines tonight?
I have never laughed so hard over pnemonia leading to total amputation of the hand.
Never.
And I'm sure I've seen that same scenario at least a few times, right?
NEW RECORDING VERDICT: IT'S FREAKING AMAZING.
Just thought you should know...
I'm so excited for November.
I'm so excited for November.
BUBLAGUAUGA.
I wonder if I should go to sleep.
Ever?
Maybe?
I have no idea.
(Please don't expect that title to make sense: I'm beyond exhaustion.)
Ever?
Maybe?
I have no idea.
(Please don't expect that title to make sense: I'm beyond exhaustion.)
Monday, September 26, 2005
DIABOLICAL SCHEME.
Jennifer Gerhardt and I would like to abduct the following persons:
Alan Rickman
Kenneth Branagh
Hugh Laurie
Colin Firth
Hugh Grant
Matthew Broderick
(And Roger Bart. Just because Kelley has already met him. And insulted him to his face. Sort of jokingly.)
Tony Blair
Martin Freeman
Ricky Gervais
Robert Sean Leonard
Eric McCormack
Sean Biggerstaff
Mark Ruffalo
Guy Pierce
Nathan Lane
Kiefer Sutherland
Joel McHale
Rupert Everett
Wayne Brady
*Jude Law
Stephen Malkmus
Pete Yorn
Harry Connick Jr.
Michael Bubble
Victor Garber
Rufus Wainwright
**Jeff Buckley
**Elliott Smith
James Barbour
Norbert Leo Butz
Could you imagine if one of these people showed up on your doorstep? It would be better than Christmas. It would be better than...well...not having gorgeous men showing up on your doorstep.
*Jude Law present solely for the "Prettiness Factor."
**Were they living, we would "Do" them.
Alan Rickman
Kenneth Branagh
Hugh Laurie
Colin Firth
Hugh Grant
Matthew Broderick
(And Roger Bart. Just because Kelley has already met him. And insulted him to his face. Sort of jokingly.)
Tony Blair
Martin Freeman
Ricky Gervais
Robert Sean Leonard
Eric McCormack
Sean Biggerstaff
Mark Ruffalo
Guy Pierce
Nathan Lane
Kiefer Sutherland
Joel McHale
Rupert Everett
Wayne Brady
*Jude Law
Stephen Malkmus
Pete Yorn
Harry Connick Jr.
Michael Bubble
Victor Garber
Rufus Wainwright
**Jeff Buckley
**Elliott Smith
James Barbour
Norbert Leo Butz
Could you imagine if one of these people showed up on your doorstep? It would be better than Christmas. It would be better than...well...not having gorgeous men showing up on your doorstep.
*Jude Law present solely for the "Prettiness Factor."
**Were they living, we would "Do" them.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
WHAT KIND OF FUNNY AM I? HUH?
CLEAN | COMPLEX | DARK
You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.
I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer.
Your sense of humor takes the most thought to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion.
You probably loved the Office. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/.
PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais
Saturday, September 24, 2005
PEOPLE HATE ME.
Clarification: People hate me with a passion.
Why?
STUPIDITY.
Alright, perhaps that's being a bit harsh. They're not entirely stupid; it's the act of being angered at me for something that is Not Of My Doing Or Within My Control that harbors the utmost ignorance.
I can't stand people talking about me behind my back, but on top of that, I can't stand the fact that I've hurt people with no intention, method, or committing any actual "hurting" on my own part.
GROW UP. NOW. GET OVER IT, MOVE ON, LIVE YOUR LIFE LIKE AN ADULT.
I've spent so much time in the last two days accommodating to everyone's ego issues, I haven't been able to sit and relax and acknowledge that I did a good job. That I worked hard for something and earned it, in that order.
It's not gloating, you insolent nimrods- it's acceptance.
Why?
STUPIDITY.
Alright, perhaps that's being a bit harsh. They're not entirely stupid; it's the act of being angered at me for something that is Not Of My Doing Or Within My Control that harbors the utmost ignorance.
I can't stand people talking about me behind my back, but on top of that, I can't stand the fact that I've hurt people with no intention, method, or committing any actual "hurting" on my own part.
GROW UP. NOW. GET OVER IT, MOVE ON, LIVE YOUR LIFE LIKE AN ADULT.
I've spent so much time in the last two days accommodating to everyone's ego issues, I haven't been able to sit and relax and acknowledge that I did a good job. That I worked hard for something and earned it, in that order.
It's not gloating, you insolent nimrods- it's acceptance.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
LIFE IS RIDICULOUSLY CRAZY.
Too many things going on, but I must admit: that's the way I like it.
Tonight's "Superhero" thing at O.C. White's could prove to be interesting. I need to find some sort of kick-ass costume to liven up the evening, else I be deemed a "dork."
Sort of funny how that works out, isn't it?
Regardless, I'm ready to break out and just spend an evening enjoying the company of human beings that I can speak to and interact with.
Hugh is wonderful, but far from conversational.
Tonight's "Superhero" thing at O.C. White's could prove to be interesting. I need to find some sort of kick-ass costume to liven up the evening, else I be deemed a "dork."
Sort of funny how that works out, isn't it?
Regardless, I'm ready to break out and just spend an evening enjoying the company of human beings that I can speak to and interact with.
Hugh is wonderful, but far from conversational.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
CALLBACKS.
There are a crapload of callbacks tonight- I have six in total, all of which I imagine will be grueling and mind-boggling.
Or, I don't really care.
Either way.
Or, I don't really care.
Either way.
SMITH: A NEW HOSPITAL DRAMA COMING THIS FALL TO FOX.
I have never broken into tears in the course of a television show. Never. But I was forced to tonight.
Damn you, O Great Writers of House.
Someone was apparently listening to at least a minor amount of hospital dialogue. They got it right. It's crazy, but they really got it right. I sat for an hour, sruggishly recalling all of the moments in the hospital that I spent personally, a bald nine-year-old who, still, has yet to be kissed (Damn that lucky Andie: the girl snagged herself an Aussie).
But that's not my point- I've had doctors like Leonard's Wilson. I've had the occasional "bald-headed midget parade" out the doors of the hospital. I know what it feels like to have a central line, sit through MRI and CT Scan as I'm asked relentlessly what kind of music I'd like to listen to. Hell, I know what it feels like to be told I was going to die. Been there. Done that.
I guess Leonard was the one who tore the biggest hole in my stoicism. I haven't seen Dr. Rossbach in at least five years. I would love to sit down and thank him. I daresay I never necessarily encountered Hugh Laurie in his hospital persona, but I don't really mind that.
Jeez. I don't normally dwell on this kind of thing. I don't like to talk about it. I haven't talked about it in...a really long time. I don't really even like to think about it. Stupid television show...
...that I love.
It's odd to have such a large portion of your life that you've completely ignored for such a long time. Not ignored, I guess; I just haven't dwelled upon it. It hasn't ruled my life, beyond the given dictations of my physicality. (Don't ask, just nod your head in agreement.) It's probably something I need to genuinely sit down and work myself through, but I've just never had the urge to do so. Or the means. Etcetera.
I want to find someone I'd feel comfortable talking to about my past experiences. I've yet to discover one of those, ironically enough.
Alright. I need to focus on something else for a while.
Damn you, O Great Writers of House.
Someone was apparently listening to at least a minor amount of hospital dialogue. They got it right. It's crazy, but they really got it right. I sat for an hour, sruggishly recalling all of the moments in the hospital that I spent personally, a bald nine-year-old who, still, has yet to be kissed (Damn that lucky Andie: the girl snagged herself an Aussie).
But that's not my point- I've had doctors like Leonard's Wilson. I've had the occasional "bald-headed midget parade" out the doors of the hospital. I know what it feels like to have a central line, sit through MRI and CT Scan as I'm asked relentlessly what kind of music I'd like to listen to. Hell, I know what it feels like to be told I was going to die. Been there. Done that.
I guess Leonard was the one who tore the biggest hole in my stoicism. I haven't seen Dr. Rossbach in at least five years. I would love to sit down and thank him. I daresay I never necessarily encountered Hugh Laurie in his hospital persona, but I don't really mind that.
Jeez. I don't normally dwell on this kind of thing. I don't like to talk about it. I haven't talked about it in...a really long time. I don't really even like to think about it. Stupid television show...
...that I love.
It's odd to have such a large portion of your life that you've completely ignored for such a long time. Not ignored, I guess; I just haven't dwelled upon it. It hasn't ruled my life, beyond the given dictations of my physicality. (Don't ask, just nod your head in agreement.) It's probably something I need to genuinely sit down and work myself through, but I've just never had the urge to do so. Or the means. Etcetera.
I want to find someone I'd feel comfortable talking to about my past experiences. I've yet to discover one of those, ironically enough.
Alright. I need to focus on something else for a while.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
THE ON AND ON.
I'm exhausted, unnerved, and unsure of my situation in reality.
A not-so-wonderful place to find myself in, no?
Sleep.
A not-so-wonderful place to find myself in, no?
Sleep.
Monday, September 19, 2005
AN OPEN LETTER TO HUGH.
To my dearest Mr. Laurie-You were robbed this evening. No questions, no bickering, no humility required. You are the best working actor on television today, and for that, you should be proud.
But you deserved that dinky-little-piece-of-statue-crap. You've earned it.
So, go have fun tonight. Get smashed with Jason, Jessica, and Jeffrey. You all deserved your awards, and should still have the opportunity to celebrate and enjoy one another's company for the evening.
And then, you can beat James Spader with a baseball bat.
Just for fun.
Love always,
Kelley
Thursday, September 15, 2005
WELCOME TO THE BEEHIVE.
It's interesting to be so utterly ignored with six people in your own room.
A room, I might add, the size of...well, the size of my room. It is my room.
Duh.
We've got Lindsay Lohan being a "mean girl" on my big-screen television, and they're oggling over communal photo albums. Pictures of hookah bars, best friends, boyfriends, lovers, people they love, people they hate, proms, parks, and all the boring stuff I seem to have no recollection of ever having/documenting through photos.
[Editor's Note: I just found out through word of mouth that I was called back for three out of four conservatory shows. I have no idea what that means at this point, but I'll find out when I see for myself.]
Anyway, I've never been so utterly bored in my life. If I get up and walk out, I'm stuck up. If I stay put, I gouge my eyes out with a Canada Dry Ginger Ale can.
Tee hee!
And the best part is- they're all comparing pictures and talking about the girls on campus. They've begun to blend into the chatter on television. They're "mean girls."
I think I'm going to be sick to my stomach.
But here's the good news- this makes me the Tina Fey of Flagler.
Hot.
A room, I might add, the size of...well, the size of my room. It is my room.
Duh.
We've got Lindsay Lohan being a "mean girl" on my big-screen television, and they're oggling over communal photo albums. Pictures of hookah bars, best friends, boyfriends, lovers, people they love, people they hate, proms, parks, and all the boring stuff I seem to have no recollection of ever having/documenting through photos.
[Editor's Note: I just found out through word of mouth that I was called back for three out of four conservatory shows. I have no idea what that means at this point, but I'll find out when I see for myself.]
Anyway, I've never been so utterly bored in my life. If I get up and walk out, I'm stuck up. If I stay put, I gouge my eyes out with a Canada Dry Ginger Ale can.
Tee hee!
And the best part is- they're all comparing pictures and talking about the girls on campus. They've begun to blend into the chatter on television. They're "mean girls."
I think I'm going to be sick to my stomach.
But here's the good news- this makes me the Tina Fey of Flagler.
Hot.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN.
I've watched Dead Poets Society no less than three times today.
The only movie in the universe that can bring me to tears without effort.
Oh, Robert Sean Leonard. Why? Why must you die with forty minutes of movie left? You're too pretty to die.
Far too pretty.
(Except, you looked old on House tonight. But still hot. Insanely HOT.)
The only movie in the universe that can bring me to tears without effort.
Oh, Robert Sean Leonard. Why? Why must you die with forty minutes of movie left? You're too pretty to die.
Far too pretty.
(Except, you looked old on House tonight. But still hot. Insanely HOT.)
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
JASON ROBERT BROWN KNOWS AUDITIONS.
I should have told them I was sick last week.
They're gonna think this is the way I sing.
Why's the pianist playing so loud-
Should I sing louder? I'll sing louder.
Maybe I should stop and start over.
I'm gonna stop and start over.
Why's the director staring at his crotch?
Why's that man staring at my resume?
Don't stare at my resume!
I made up half my resume- Look at me!
Stop looking at that- Look at me!
No, not at my shoes,
Don't look at my shoes.
I hate these "bleeping" shoes.
Why'd I pick these shoes?
Why'd I pick this song?
Why'd I pick this career?
WHHHYYYY does this pianist hate me?
So, Tonight = Not So Much Fun.
Ha.
Monday, September 12, 2005
"BROS BEFORE HOS, MAN."
If Hugh Laurie can legally say that to Robert Sean Leonard on network television, my life is finally complete.
And I am totally not a ho.
Fo'real.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
about me
- Kelley L. Smith
- New York, New York, United States
- There's nothing to say about me that can easily be said. I suppose that's why they give you an infinite amount of space to type. Oh, excuse me... "Up to 1200 characters." What if I choose to define myself beyond a mere 1200 characters, huh? Perhaps I shall go well beyond this miniature allowance. They'll see. But not right now.
