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.

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 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.

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.

WHY DO I LOVE TARGET?

The books. It's all about the books.

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.

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.

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.

AHH. NATHAN.

Is it wrong that this is the face I live for on a daily basis?
I think not.

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.

"DO THE ARM-FLAILING THING!"

NOOOOOO!!!!!!

They're canceling Arrested Development, only the greatest comedy on television since rocks were invented.
And my life is over.

RIGHT NOW.

I feel safe. Secure. Wanted. Appreciated. Cared for. Desired.
Human.
I feel real, tonight.
And it feels really, really nice.

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.

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!

PRE-HALLOWEEN PHOTOS, POST-HALLOWEEN.

Buh-duh-buh-buh-buh, I'm Lovin' It.

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?

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.

SIGH.

Cannot breathe.
Cannot type.
Cannot think.
Cannot stop this compulsory grin that's spreading across my face.

I am such a loser.

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