HOUSE, SEASON ONE. ON DVD. NOW.

IT'S MOTHER-FREAKING HOUSE. BUY IT.
OR HUGH LAURIE WILL KICK YOUR WHIMPY ASS.

WE'RE NOT GONNA PAY RENT.

The new RENT trailer just made me shiver in unexplained giddiness.
I CANNOT WAIT FOR THIS MOVIE TO ARRIVE.

TODAY?

Today is sort-of-orientation, with ID's and schedules and such. Tommorrow is Advisor day, and I am just much too excited to even attempt to describe that to anyone.
I'm rambling, primarially because I have absolutely no clue what's going on. But I'll figure something out.
Email me, call me, let me know that you're still alive, O Great Internet Consumers.

WELCOME TO LIFE.

I hope you enjoy it.

MOVEMENT.

Elis leaves for school later on this afternoon, and whereas my heart aches knowing that our friendship will certainly never be the same, I smirk knowing that it has learned to endure through great tribulation, and will stand the test of time once again.

I realize that Friday marks a great step in my development as a human being- reaching outward, attempting to span the gap between adolescence and maturity (in societal standards, mind you). It's perhaps ironic that my first night in a new habitat falls exactly three months after casting aside those hideous robes they called "Graduation attire," relishing in the knowledge that I would finally possess one of the most powerful items in my fledgling existence:
A diploma? Yes. But also the knowledge that I had earned said scrap of paper.
At this stage, anything is tangible.
Anything is possible.

(I certainly have more thoughts on the subject, whatever the subject may be. I do not, however, have the great luxury of time on my side. What with 400 albums waiting to become mere duplicates in a great and time-spanning collection. It's more time consuming than she thought, than even I thought, it would be. But, it is what it is. Within the given time constraints, I will be packed and ready. Even if it means taking more than humanly necessary and discarding random articles of gear along the way. How complicated this moving process is!)

FREAKING SICK.

(With the addition of "freaking" because it has much more emphasis than a simple "I'm sick.")
(And because I'm not just sick. I'm FREAKING sick.)

HOLLA.

Don't be hatin'.

THE NEWEST IN A LONG LINE OF TIME-CONSUMING CONVENIENCES.

I have to admit, I am a fan of this handy little Microsoft Word-to-Blogger add-in.
It doesn’t suck.
[Editor's Note: Of course, if we want to make these entries look extra-special, you still have to log in and edit. But I'm not complaining.]

THOUGHT.

I can't wait until I grow up so that I can enjoy what I love.
That shouldn't make sense to you, but it makes perfect nonsense to me.
Trust me. It works.

DORM ROOM.

(With helpful captions for my roommate.)

THOUGHTS ON MY CD COLLECTION:

1. I have a LOT of CDs.
2. I don't know who two of these bands are. Whatever.
3. I have a FREAKING LOT of CDs.

PETER JENNINGS (1938-2005)

You never brought me bad news that I couldn't handle. You were an idol of mine. By far, my favorite anchor on any television set.
You will be thoroughly missed.

DELLINGER.

I have always been just a little bit jealous of you.

Perhaps that's not the greatest foundation for friendship. It certainly can't help- nor could resentment, secrets, poisonous anger, or brooding guilt. It ripped us apart pretty quickly, and I think we knew it.

I'm sorry that I made your senior year a living hell.
You deserved a best friend; so did I.

You are an amazing human being. I have always known that, but I made a mistake in letting it consume me, allowing myself to feel like I wanted to prove to you that I was smart, attractive, and as industrious an individual as I felt you are. I felt like the little kid who would always be just a bit too immature to stand beside someone who knew they were going to do something great.
I got clingy- I wanted every moment to be about me, I wanted to play dress-up, historian, activist, gossip, and I wanted to do all of it with you.
I suffocated you, I think. I was afraid to get left behind, as I'm afraid will happen in the coming weeks. I truly don't want that to happen, nor do I want it to be the sentiment that filters through me as I start the new life that college offers me.

But I want my best friend to be a part of that life. I need that.

You found an amazing man to share time with. I just wanted to be the girl that got to sit alongside and gossip, to experience with you the fact that you had, at long last, met someone that was destined to become a great, mighty force in your life. I got jealous- and you knew that. But I was never jealous of the fact that you found Matt: I was jealous that I couldn't share my closest companion with him, that she had to simply be taken from me. I felt abandoned. And I missed you.
I worked harder than ever to become friends with Matt. I figured that I could at least share time with the two of you, even if you seemed to want to have nothing to do with me outside of his presence.

Yet, I was never disappointed in you, just saddened that you refused my confidence. It was suddenly as though we had never met. We had never shared stupid chattering giggles, we had never made fun of Deborah Casillo, never watched I-Robot with PJ. I felt like an absolute failure. I had driven away the one person who seemed to understand me, who would indulge the fact that my showtune obsession was beyond intolerable, and who would be there to back me up when big Italian kids called me names. You had ripped yourself out of my life, and it broke my heart.

But I still didn't understand what I had done. Was it all about Matt? Had we simply grown apart? Was I turning into the kind of person I didn't want to become, and driving you away in the process? I never knew if our friendship was going to be Jekyll or Hyde, and I wasn't sure I could tell the difference anymore. I couldn't take it. I don't know how many times I went to Matt (and other assorted communal friends), asking desperately and wildly if you had mentioned some careless action or misjudged moment of mine that had left you so relentlessly disgusted with me. It was always to no avail.

And so, I went on a vendetta- if my senior year was going to be an emotional failure, why not at least make something of myself?
An ass, perhaps?
I worked so hard to prove that I could hold my own, that I could be as wonderfully intelligent, gifted, passionate, and successful as you. And I pushed you out of the way many times to do so. I knew you were hurt, but so was I. It's not an excuse, it's not justification, it's simply the truth. I wasn't going to be trampled on without a fight.

I didn't want to admit that it was over for you and I. The dearest friend I'd ever had, gone, and without excuse? I couldn't accept that. And I don't know how many calls or emails or frantic IMs I sent out in the past two months, just praying that this was all a joke, that you were in the Peace Corp and had been wisked away for urgent duty the day after Graduation. You disappeared from my life, the summer before I had to start a new one, and I hated you for it.

I think I had finally come to terms with it when I posted that entry. Maybe not, but it was an outward sign that I had to, that I desperately needed to change how hurt I felt. I didn't ever expect it to evoke a makeshift confessional out of both our Blogs, but it did.

(So much for acceptance of the situation, huh?)

I have four million moments I wish I could re-live with you from this year. Prom. Graduation. Senior Lunches. Regular lunches. Moments that were false and distorted because we let them become that way. I hate that I will remember this year for that, but grateful that I may get to try to restore some of the communion we shared.

You are my best friend. The dearest, truest friend I have ever had. I miss you.
I don't know what else I can say.
Wait- yes, I do.

I love you. And I'm sorry.

LITTLE KNOWN FACTS.

I think I've played through Songs For A New World at least six times today. That has to be a record.

I can't wait until Post Secret updates each Sunday. I'm a freak. And it's complete schadenfreude in the worst way.

Speaking of days of the week, Tuesday is House Day. It always will be, at least, until the DVD is released (in three weeks).

There was a security guard staring at me in the mall last week and I turned on my cell phone's ring so that I could pretend to answer a call and walk away. He creeped me out. And my ringtone is Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now." He obviously wasn't a Freddy Mercury fan.

My curtain (for the time being) is made up of old Prom/Homecoming dresses. I still think they look better hanging in the air than on me.

I've spent more time typing this past week than I have spent speaking to members of my own family.

I can't wait to leave for school. My parents think that I will miss them, and whereas they are correct, it is only in the most minor of degrees.

I still feel like a 40-year-old virgin. And now, they're making a movie about it.

I worry that I won't have to courage to go back onstage this Fall. I think I've forgotten how to act.

Mad Caps is the most addictive game. Ever. For me. It makes me think of Wonka Bottlecaps. Which I haven't had in for-reaking-ever.

[I realized that Elise and I weren't friends anymore when she emailed me from Russia last Summer. But I tried to pretend that I didn't know. She gave me a deck of cards for my eighteenth birthday. And I miss hanging out with Matt.]
BRILLIANT, LIFE-AFFIRMING UPDATE OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT: We're friends again. Which is good.

I almost drove 300 miles through California to see James Barbour perform.

My nails look a lot better with pink nail polish than any other color. I always hated pink, but it's kind of punk-rock now. If boys can do it, so can I.

Roommates scare me. I'm kind of worried that I'll clash with mine, but I'm more afraid that she'll think I'm a loser.

I am a loser. And I'm okay with that.

I haven't said an honest prayer for months. I haven't even been conscious while I'm in Mass. I hate that. Really.

Gospel music fascinates me. The harmonies make me tense with excitement, and I wish with ever fiber of my being that I could be in a giant Gospel chorus that produces an unbelievable sound.

I have too much stuff.

My life is lived from one infatuation to another. For example, I am currently in love with Hugh Laurie.

I have never taken the recommended dosage of medication. Someday, I'll overdose on Aleve.

I've always thought I was a bit too strong for hating. I think I still am. And that's a song lyric.

Sometimes I wish I was a drunken party chick.

Flagler College was an extremely rash decision. I drove by, peeked at the Ponce de Leon Hotel, and sent in my application the next day. I still wonder if I made the right decision. And I should know in a month.

I feel as close to my best friend from kindergarten as I did then.

I have not been able to fall asleep for the last five years without thinking about one person. And I cannot stand them.

Today, a nice guy in the Navy said that I was cute.

I was ready to buy a wig two weeks ago after my Fantastic Sams Disaster. It would have been wavy, short-ish, and brunette. My hair has been varying shades of red, orange, blonde, and brown for about four years. I don't know what it used to look like.

I prepared a speech for the Cappie Awards Ceremony in May. I never used it. They threw me onstage, and all I could see was Backel staring back at me, beaming with pride. It made me sick to my stomach.

I hate people. And I want them to like me.

Children scare me because I am impatient and lack understanding. I would be an uncaring, bitter parent. I'm afraid to hurt someone who would be so dependent upon me.

I haven't had a pizza in at least a few months. The first thing I'll be ordering from my dorm room will be a giant cheese pie.

Florida heat is unbearable. Ridiculous.

I can't shop at a store until I've looked at their sale rack. It's the first (and in most cases, only) place I shop.

Craig Ferguson is my favorite late night host ever, with Conan O'Brien slipping to a disappointing second. Conan had the almighty Walker: Texas Ranger Lever to fall back upon, not to mention Irish good looks. However, Craig has the best monologue night after night, and he's old, Scottish, and gorgeous. (God, I fall for old guys quicker than I could tumble down a staircase.)

I'm still not tired.