I AM NOT POSTING FROM AFRICA.

Believe it or not, that is an issue I'm currently trying to battle through.
I am forced to demand of myself the sort of arrogance that allows me to deem this self-destructive tribute to my ambitions I call "summer break" as something less than the ultimate waste of my gifts as a human being.
Wordy.
I dictate thoughts on a rather infrequent basis as it is, but something inside of me deems it worthy.


I think I have the tendency to come across as an ass. I'm not considering the idea that I genuinely am an ass, simply because I realize that it's so finite in my mind that it can't even be an option worth consideration. But something in me, the part that demands me to make something more of this miraculous time (for, in honesty, that's all that time can be) begs me to fight for life that doesn't leave me lonely and, well, ass-like in disposition and character.
I don't know how successful I'm ever going to be in that particular exploit.
But, I suppose it doesn't really matter.


I'm just going to do my god-damned best.
I think that has to be good enough.

THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY.

Thank you, Fox News, for retaining your title as complete and utter sucker-faced-idiots.

My hysteria, as tame as it might be, stems directly from the fact that the conservative news channel "edited" some of Congressman Robert Wexler's responses to Stephen Colbert on The Colbert Report so as to portray him in a relatively negative and immoral light, versus the entirely comic one that Colbert set out to portray on his program.

Instead of the commentary of others, I've chosen simply to place the full and aired question and answer session with Wexler, which proves to be far more humorous and intelligent than the animalistic frenzy might have you believe.



The true and genuine beauty of the entire situation is the mere fact that what Fox News accomplished was EXACTLY (I'm sure) what Colbert hoped would happen. They fell right into his witty, liberal clutches.

And, on that note, thank you perpetually, Stephen Colbert, for being the greatest human being alive.

INCAPACITATED.

I have experienced some of the most legitimately enlightening moments of thought-provoking discussion ever this evening.
I am also blitzed beyond recognition.
I welcome the diversity.

SOUBRETTE.

While it is most definitely a bonus to be back in St. Augustine, a part of me feels relatively isolated from everything going on.
The exposition:
I spent an entirely enjoyable evening with three of my favorite individuals, and everything was genuinely dandy: we ordered non-alcoholic beverages with less-than-deliriously funny names, attempted to foam-proof a dishwasher, and discussed more than enough random topics to keep me entertained. All, to say the least, accumulating to a lovely welcome home.
The thought-provoking jargon:
I am, however, torn in my realistic face-value. That is to say that I'm not sure where I fit into the scheme of things. Not that I am an entirely disposable entity, but a part of me has to wonder just where my importance as a human being can possibly come into play, and just who as an individual could reasonably value my company.
The resolution:
That said, a good night's worth of sleep and recuperation from our travels will certainly lend itself to an immense amount of fun in the coming days- I just need to let it amount to that.
Regardless, I daresay I will always feel like the sidekick.
The titular tie-in:
Soubrette. Enough said.

THIS IS HARDLY PUZZLING.

I woke up from my nap about twenty minutes ago, and my parents were working on the crossword.
My big contribution to the whole thing was when my dad off-handedly mentioned "Freudian subject, six letters."

I screamed out "libido" before I knew what was going on.



It was pretty damn awkward.

VERONICA TALK.

"She said 'interections.' Oh, my God, she just said 'interections.'"

All I can say is, three more days.

I JUST VOTED FOR JOSH BLUE. SWEET.

That was, basically, the happiest moment of my life.

"Hi. This is Josh Blue, and you've made the right decision. Thanks for voting for me!"

Besides the fact that it was unbelievably freakish to hear his voice pick up on the other end (and because I thought he would tell me that I'm going to hell for my pity vote), that was dandy.

BLATANT SIGNS OF WHAT IS CLEARLY MINOR DEPRESSION AND/OR INSANITY.

1. Stopping to yell at passer-bys in Kmart.
2. Spending an entire day making posters for a production I would rather vomit all over than waste productive funding on.
3. Making faces with my family members whilst "talking" on the phone with a loathed human being for over two god-forsaken hours.
4. Sobbing all throughout Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.
5. Running into the kitchen to disguise said sobbing as a craving for perogies.
6. Savoring the five minute drive it takes to get from Home Of Doom to the very edge of the city of Dunedin.
7. Bidding on seventeen new cellular telephones via eBay, and purchasing none.
8. Stopping to yell at passer-bys in CVS.
9. And in Target.
10. Sam's Club.
11. Publix.
12. Basically, any time I get to stop and yell at passing individuals should be accounted for at this junction.
13. Ruining a favorite outfit with the keen utilization of White-Out.
14. Calling someone's number four times to no avail in the course of one afternoon.
15. Cramming every multivitamin into my daily regime that is humanly possible, and some that are not.
16. Sleeping for far less time than I work.
17. Contemplating considerable pain and suffering.
18. Recognizing my immunities.
19. Hurting.
20. A lot.
21. Going to sleep, expecting a change once awoken.
22. Going to sleep, knowing that change is bound to happen.
23. Sleeping.

TALK AMONGST YOURSELVES.

Finally, the first week of my child-care hell has come to an end.
I have to admit, the most enticing part of this weekend is the mere fact that I have no designated hour to awaken in the morning.
Brilliant planning on my part, primarily, followed closely by a generic dispatch of Tylenol PM.
Ha. Drugs. How funny when taken out of context!
Continuing...
I daresay I'm lacking most cognitive function whilst typing, but never shall come the day when a lack of cognition would halt my communication.
Except it would. Especially in circumstances such as this.

Hmm. My words aren't making sense to me, even in my heightened state of babbling. That must indicate something. But what, exactly?
What, indeed.

I will have amassed a reasonable amount of funding come the conclusion of next Friday's festivities, and that, dear self, is enough to allow for the thorough enjoyment of a night of incapacitated exhaustion. I have done my best to remain healthy thus far, but now, it is all up to miraculous chemicals to ease my brain on down the road.
So to speak.
Like I said, "delirious."

Actually, I don't think I ever called myself delirious.
Huh. I'm mentally jumping the proverbial gun.
Effing sweet.

[Editor's Note: Mentally, and for the sake of everyone who couldn't possibly care less, I must also note that New York, S-Man, and Boyfriend Time come in less than a month. I could not possibly be more ecstatic. Unless I get a pony sometime in the next few weeks. I might boycott joy for a pony. But only as long as it has spots. Simply put, "make it so, Number One."]

"WE'VE BOOKED PASSAGE FOR FOUR ON THE TIDEWATER MAJESTY."

Maybe not, but I have my plane ticket.
And, right now, that is the single greatest thought roaming through my mind.
Regardless of how this "camp" atmosphere works, regardless of whether I have the adequate training or am forced to merely throw their crap together, I am happy.
And I am happy because I know that less from a month from now, I will be in his arms.
Like I said, "happy."
It's a good thing.
I should remind myself to try it once in a while.

WONKETTE IS MY CONDI-BASHING REFUGE.

I am only moderately joking. Wonkette has been my eternal source for happiness and guidance in the last few days, and I have no better way to pledge my love than to shamelessly plug them over and over again.

CHENEY TOTALLY DOESN'T GET CONDI 'N' CHERTOFF'S INSIDE JOKES.

Yeah. They're making fun of him.

"COMPROMISED."

After last night's festivities, I have the greatest honor of knowing that I have honest individuals around me who care enough to protect me in some varied way, shape, or form. Even if protecting me means letting me make a teensy fool of myself.
I have to admit, it was one of the best nights I have had in a long, long time.
Gracious Theatrical God On High, I swear to refrain from further lushy-ness.
Promise.

THE FOURTH OF JULY, TWO THOUSAND AND SIX.

Let this be an indication of my evening:


Ha.

"BETRAYED," CRIES NATHAN LANE. OH, AND MYSELF.

There were opportune moments in my life thus far when I have felt compelled to use the term "screwed over."
Never before has that terminology proven such an accurate depiction of my being:

My mental health is in absolute shambles, pending the idea that I had any sort of coveted "mental health" to begin with.
Emotionally speaking, I might as well be silent.
The few, remote entities that I desire any remote connection with are either too far away to bestow it upon such as myself (hence "remote"), or, as of late, rather unworthy of my time.
Oh, and I think I might have killed my mother's cat in an indirect fashion.

Needless to say, this has been slightly less entertaining or productive an evening than I might have hoped. Desired. Envisioned.
A veritable catastrophe, as it were.

Ta-da! Welcome to Hell, Miss Smith! May I take your coat? Excess baggage? Promises you don't intend to keep? Unrequited adoration? Hopeless fantasies?

To quote myself in a conversation from last evening that has already had the privilege of being made quite painfully public on its own accord:

I have reciprocation issues, I think.