MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH MEAN, BITTER INDIVIDUALS.

Dr. Gregory House can diagnose me with schizophrenia any day.
Unless they find some other mystifying disease to slap on my case file...

Enough jabbering. More Jabberwocky.
Mmm. Jabberwocky.
With mere days until the start of Advanced Placement Fest 2005, I must stop to ponder whether or not I am truly "prepared" for that which I shall be facing, be it Fictional Analysis, Slope Regression, The Phillips Curve, Freudian Hypnosis, Judicial Linkage, or good ol' fashioned Hydrocarbons.
Alas, tis' time for my waking to cease.
I'm going to go sleep.
Either way, I'm finished typing.
Sort of.
In a rather non-conformist sense.

I can't bring myself to quit. Something about the rain tapping overhead and the cool draft from our porch door brings me to typing. It has little to do with the fact that the keys being hit sound much like the fall of rain, like lengthy words and quirky phrases dropping out of some sky at my command. And it couldn't possibly be the fact that these stupid cats refuse to let me be. They purr and scratch and claw their way into my attentive span of thought, and for some odd reason, I can't bring myself to crowd them out. My mind feels neglected, perhaps, after the long days without physical disclosure of thought, or extensive sleep deprivation, or maybe even bizarre responsibility to relinquish my daily existence for someone else to ignore and fail to partake in. But I haven't given them the opportunity, so...
If I could print out five copies of my life story and hand them to people with a guarantee that they would be fully read and (even better) understood, who would they go to? And far more importantly, would this be an autobiography or some primeval, editorialist crap written by Robert Downy Jr.? These, people, are the important questions.
In five ridiculously generalized personas:
1. Someone compassionate.
2. Someone intelligent. Ingenious, even.
3. Someone with looks to kill. Definately someone I'd sleep with.
4. Someone I've always wanted to trust, but never had courage enough to do so.
5. Someone who has always disliked me.

I suppose you could guess names for each separate category. Most wash over into each of the others. I may find someone who is each and every one of those things. A talented individual, indeed.
Something tells me I've yet to meet most of them.

PROM? AND KELLEY WAS THERE?!

I come to you from the Land Of The Dead.
The Day After Prom.
My evening was beyond amazing, and I certainly didn't expect it to be. However, after 24 hours of non-stop action, I collapsed into my Bed Of Seclusion, and slept.
It was relatively nice.
I am, however, still unable to communicate at normal velocity, so I'm afraid that de-briefing will come at a later time.
A much, much, much later time.

READING...

If I didn't enjoy the art that is reading, I don't know how I would spend my "free" time.
-Sometimes, I wonder just what the author/poet/journalist was thinking as the words flew from their fingertips/mouths/etc.
-Sometimes, I question whether they even understand what it is they're trying to inform me of.
-Often, I write snotty notes to them in the margins of a page, just to see if I'll return to that page, finding a disgruntled response or an angry outburst over my free analysis of their work.
-And, of course, I find it easier just to skip the book and drift off to sleep.

Damn you, Mary Shelley.
I've read through your words so many times before. We should have history. But even Franz Kafka is kinder on my schedule than you and your raving lunatic of a scientist, Dr. Frankenstein.
Damn you to hell.

POPE BENEDICT XVI

VATICAN CITY - Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger of Germany, a hard-line guardian of conservative doctrine, was elected the new pope Tuesday evening in the first conclave of the new millennium. He chose the name Pope Benedict XVI and called himself “a simple, humble worker.”

To draw sentiment from 1776:
"Good God, sir, is that fair?!"

SATURDAY IN THE PARK WITH PAUL AND CYNTHIA.

(Move over, Sondheim.)
I have to admit, this afternoon was, without much doubt, the most fun I've had in a long time. Pitman was a riot: We heard "The Machete Story" for a second time, "The Hook Story" (in a new light), "The Homecoming Story," "The Meeting Tom Story," (I missed) "The Prom Story," and many more than I care to mention. Let us just say that it was an afternoon of Literary Merit.
And then, to top off all great storytelling, Plyler took me to The Gap.
The Gap.
We were heading toward Starbucks and, as all trips to coffee shops inevitably do, I was pulled into an egocentric clothing hell-hole, with their number-one customer as my guide.
He browsed, perused, scanned; he was in his element.
Distracted by the pretty lights and colors, I, on the other hand, fell by the wayside, and stumbled into the Sale section. It was my only salvation, despite the fact that I "partook" in none of it.
Finally, he told me it was time for coffee, and I was off like a rocket. After all, he was the professional. When Plyler says that you've spent enough time in The Gap, you have officially spent MORE than enough time in The Gap.
(It's how these things work.)
It was just genuinely nice to spend an afternoon with people I don't necessarily communicate with on a regular basis. "Sure, we have six classes together, but I've been convinced (since Freshman year) that you're a psycho-biatch. Instead, we take a Saturday off, enjoy ritzy Winter Park, and throw neon-orange Koosh Footballs. Now, we're the best of friends."
A nice change of pace, I think.

...AND WE JIVE AT STATE ZERO-FIVE.

[Editor's Note: This is while we stood (Read: Allowed ourselves to be herded like cattle.) in Morsanni Hall at the TPAC, waiting desperately for Beauty and the Beast to open its great, brown doors. We were in pain. We were nearly trampled. We stood there for two hours. It was not a "grand ol' time." In fact, if State was actually called A Tale Of Two Cities, this would be "it was the worst of times." Seriously.]

WACKA, WACKA.

I'll be driving to school momentarily so as to embark on the great adventure of State Festival 2005...
God, I love State.
Five days of intensive, high-octane theatre (and some low-grade fuel theatre) that is made better only by the enormous amount of time we spend away from school.
School and I have recognized our differences. They may prove to be irreconcilable, but we're working towards joint custody of the kids and an even 30-70 split.
After all, School was dumb enough to sign the pre-nup.
Stupid School.
If anyone feels like stalking me, head over to FLThespian.com and check out our festival program. Not only does it provide a complete record of all that will occur over the weekend, but significantly raises my chances of being abducted against my will.
Good stuff.
Well, I'll check in later via AudioBlogger, and if that fails me, you're screwed.
Ha.

MOOSE VS. MOUSSE: WHO WINS?

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.
[Editor's Note: I am rather distraught over the death of John Paul II, and have spent the last few days in some sort of wayward-vigil state of being. It's odd, mind you, but a relative tribute to what I felt he brought the Catholic community at large. He'll be greatly, enormously missed.]
Tomorrow brings THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL FOR THIS WEEK, and the beginning of my State Packing Adventure. Choosing clothing that will be acutely assessed by the most underpaid homosexual actors alive is no small task, and daunting to the ragged, non-girly among us. But, I feel I'm up to the challenge.
I need to go wash out the orange dye in my hair before it all falls out and I find myself earnestly shopping at Wig-Villa come Wednesday afternoon.
Wig-Villa. Sweet.