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.