GAINESVILLE.

In.
Settled.
Typing atop a four-hundred-count-thread fitted sheet.
Oh, and a bed.

My living space is much larger than I would have expected, and though I've yet to spend any time speaking with my roommate, I am feeling as though things are going to work.

I really think so.

I should be reading (which I will do shortly), or sorting clothing into drawers (which may never happen), but I'm currently sitting, which still proves a much more solid alternative to things such as shark-fishing or dying.

I am marginally out of sorts. It appears to be no one's fault, but I daresay I am sitting on the brink of a tiny bit of fear, smidgen of mental breakdown, and a precocious ounce or two of indecision about what the summer holds for the next two months.

Things will be alright. I am well aware of this.
Hopefully, they will, in addition, be amazing.
I am striving for exceptions today.

I HAVE HIT BOOKS.

I cannot fathom a world with less sleep than this, and yet, I will have to, starting on Monday.

Sleep is certainly on the bottom of my "frightened to no end" list of Intern Expectations. I've read [almost] every text on improvisation that's revered in one circle or another.

Commercial for "Pirates": It was better than I thought is was going to be, with only a few gaping holes left taking on water. And Depp is still unfathomly not attractive. Talented, certainly; crazy, a bit; attractive, ugh.

I'm intentionally supressing the ginormous fear that Gainesville is going to prove me significantly incompetent and, furthermore, unavoidably unskilled, foolish, teetering on the brink of theatrical insanity [I typed that and I realized how redundant that was. So much for rhetorical expression...].
I should go back to reading. It seems I need all the text I can get.

MORNING.

Loooooong day ahead. Considerably long. Something close to nine hours at a cash register and hustling sticky, sticky indulgences.
Hopefully I fail to garner a massive and frustrating headache. Hopefully.

If not, I will simply gouge someone in the face with a nacho tray. It could happen.

SCOUR, SCOUR.

Sleeping is proving a rather difficult feat this evening.

Ha.

AND FOR ONE-DOLLAR AND SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS, YOU CAN UPGRADE TO AN ICEE.

Ahh. The slow and meager tinkle of coins, drifting by daintily on the River of Concessionary Delights.
Working. It's been, to my surprise, pretty tolerable thus far.
Apparently, my Teenage Mutant Ninja Film Crew Trainers told both of my Mighty Morphin Power Managers that my skills went far beyond the realm of Karate Fountain Drink And Popcorn Kid. I have surpassed even my wildest of functional dreams. That is, of course, nothing close to the case, but, regardless, I can't help but feel grateful that people recognize me not as the dumbass I tend to be, but as someone eager to make just a sliver over minimum wage.
And yes, there is break room buzz over the fact that I am leaving next Monday. Some workers are, how shall I put it, piz-issed. Fo' shizzle.

My little brother graduates from high school tomorrow morning. I earnestly didn't know how that was going to come to fruition, but I'm glad it has. I am proud of him, be it in some remote corner of my brain, spreading rapidly through my heart, and presenting itself somewhere along the lines of my hand smacking the back of his head for being so lazy all along. Like I said, proud. Lovingly proud.

I want to take this summer to investigate a new side of myself. Not new by any conventional standards of the word, but more of a gentle tugging on the facets of my personality that I've utilized as needed without going too in-depth so as to risk exposing them as genuine traits.
I want to be funny once again. I feel like I've lost that part of me in the last two years, and something has to be said for my relative unawareness of its gradual disappearance. I don't know what to say about it, but I'll be damned if I don't try to come up with something radical in the next few months.
I want to write again. Not infrequently, like this, but write sustaining words that take me deeper into the realities I've yet to explore, invigorate my neurotic grammatical structure, fascinate the person inside me who used to cling to the written word as scripture in its own right, partisan or non, with wings on either side. I want metaphors to jump off the page and strangle thoughts out of me 'till I face nothing more frightening than the thought of saying everything I have ever wanted to say. I want to feel that shred of textual genius within me, whether thoroughly conceited or not.

For some reason, this evening has left me feeling far less hopeless than similar pitch-black skies would have otherwise dictated. It shouldn't surprise you that I am smiling. It feels familiar.

PERPETUAL TRAINING.

It is the oddest thing to find yourself as the working subordinate to someone a little less than your own age and maturity. I, myself, choose to blame it on a late distinction toward working, and I'm entirely alright with that. "Personal growth time," I'll call it. The job world thus far has been more entertaining in prospect than factually worthwhile, which makes this current endeavor all the more enticing. I am officially an employee with a large corporate organization, one who will learn the lackey ropes of initiation and gradually move myself along whatever ladder I choose until, ultimately, I reassert my efforts elsewhere. That will come sooner rather than later, mind you, but I'm down with it. I call it, "Experimentation in Pursuit of an Artistic Lifestyle."

However, I have an undeniably soothing and almost prophetic understanding that I will continue to survive as long as I look younger than my seventeen-year-old manager.

I am going to enjoy my month-long stint in grunt work. It is already gloriously visible.

THREE-THIRTY.

Insomnia is a powerful competitor for my focus this evening.
Sleep is simply not flashy enough to keep up.

Suck it up, Sleep. Your wimpy ass belongs elsewhere.

Actually, I'm going to try and crash. Into bed, that is. Not a wall, or other hard surface into which "crashing" might prove dangerous or, worse yet, inconvenient.

I didn't know I could ramble with my fingertips in the midst of such little amounts of energy. They are truly masters of their own accord, reciting with an eternal lack of grace or poise that I would have never fathomed. At least, not while sane. This, my dear [no one] is far from that of sanity or congealed thought. Instead, I divert myself along the path of intrepid nothingness, stopping to pass a lone memory or faint recollection of something that might have, at some point in time, proved significant or meaningful to some "one," "place," or "thing."

I have no idea where this is going. Better yet, I have even less of an idea of where it is ending. Which, for anyone dredging through my blabber, should be the more intense of focuses.

Lack of focus. That's what I'm grappling with this evening. Nothing feels monumental or powerful enough for me to fixate upon, discuss at length, bury myself in the warmth of its conversational value. Instead, I am merely a vessel for meaningless jargon, a disgruntled voyeur, gazing on the product of ten fingers eager to pound out thoughts and express syntax that have no foundation in realistic weight, value, significance, or importance.

Even as my brain is screaming for me to shut up, my fingers are gesturing rudely in their incessant movement, unceasing, yet completely non-committed to the outcome of such contradiction.

I'm going to shut them up for a few hours, I think. Mandatory silence never hurt anyone. Finger-wise, that is.

TWO-THIRTY.

I just placed a barely-significant eBay bid on a signed Original Cast Recording of my true and genuine loves, [title of show]. Earnestly, however, whether or not I win the monetary battle is of minuscule gravity to me; instead, the sheer magnitude of the fact that I placed the first bid on this item of grandeur sets my nerdiness aflutter.

Oh, my absent-minded musical theatre indulgence! How I have missed thee.

I hear a whole myriad of showtunes calling with a vengeance.
And this summer, they mean business.

BECAUSE I WANT TO...

I don't care if you see this or not, but:


I AM PROUD OF YOU.
INFINITELY.
LOVE.


Today, thus far, is making me smile.

DISTRACTIONS.

I have a wonderfully mediocre job to subside my building enthusiasm toward self-propelled cryogenics until May 28th finally arrives. Which, dare I say it, is a positive thing.
Positively positive.

My cat continues to type as my proxy, most likely because my hands are focused (minimally) on this and not her. Sorry, Alaneta.