CHRISTOPHER WALKEN COOKS CHICKEN AND PEARS.

Oh, lordy.
This just completely made my otherwise shoddy existence.

Man Makes Chicken With Pears.

If it weren't for this video, I would be left alone to consider how awkwardly humiliating my emotional life can be.
Instead, all I can think about is how the pear bottoms taste like "cookies."

I want Christopher Walken to make me juicy pear cookies. Right now.

BOOKED, Y'ALL.

PA from August 13th to the 21st.
No complaints.
I'm ready.

Almost.

I'VE SAID THIS A THOUSAND TIMES. OR, MAYBE JUST ONCE.

Every few months, I find myself caught back up into, what I have deemed, a "cycle of caring."
Some might recognize said "cycle" as a decent, humanistic sort of thing, worthy of applause and merit.
I have no other choice but to see it as a pathetic waste of my time.
No. Not my time- my dignity.

I'm so utterly exhausted from waiting around for goodness to prevail, happiness to waft in my direction, or some enchanted fairy-tale glory to envelop my being.
I seek out good things, and drain myself in sharing those feelings of worthiness and compassion with others, yet they continue to be pointless, unrecognized, wholly detrimental to my surprisingly fragile self-esteem, and best of all, unrequited.

I don't know how many times I will have to reiterate to myself via the written word that I have issues with reciprocation. There is a level of charity that has been surpassed, and is now simply an arrogant, advantageous sort of rite, I think. Something that others can chuckle at in its simplicity, but something that draws me deeper and deeper into falling away from interaction with anyone.

On that chipper note, I remain far from depression- it's loneliness.
Plain, simple, and blatant. Loneliness.

AND...CHUCKLE.

I might be in love with someecards.
They're pretty much amazing. That's all I'm saying.




Um, yeah.

A QUICK NOTE:

Mr. "Our Lord And Savior" Jesus H. Christ did not die on the cross so that you could memorialize him with gaudy airbrushing on the back of your Neptune Blue PT Cruiser, license plate [Editor's Note: Vanity Plate removed out of the sheer generosity of my heart, and because the driver would get their nilly rear kicked if someone were to actually post it for other intelligent human beings to see.].

Thank you.

-Kelley L. Smith

AVADA KEDAVRA, BOOK SEVEN.

And, I've finished it.

Still not sure what to think of it, but it's been devoured, in whatever sense exists where one can feverously consume pieces of literature.

So...individual reflection time. Yep.

I'm posting this because I think it is adorable. And by "it is," I mean "we are."


Uh, huh.

OH, YES.

I, like many millions of individuals across the globe, am highly anticipating Friday evening's release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling's final novel in her seven-volume series.

But, in earnest, it is the bookies across the globe that make me smile.
Why, you ask?
Because, at this very moment, international odds for Harry "offing himself" are at 33-1. Thirty-three to one.

That's ridiculous.
And absolutely amazing.

I love gambling.

WALK IT OUT, FOSSE.

This is the most amazing thing in the history of the dance/hip-hop universe.

Don't dispute me.

"I'M OBNOXIOUS AND DISLIKED; DID YOU KNOW THAT?"

Having just concluded an evening of 1776 with my grandmother, I am easily the happiest, most patriotic human being ever.
Not really. But, yes. Obviously.

Dear Gracious Lord on High, do I love that little show, that little piece of historical gluttony that brings my musical soul to a quirky quiver. I could babble for hours over its glory and dominance and simplistic finery and so on and so forth. And IMDB happens to mention some undisclosed project slated for 2009 that bears the same title of my most beloved musical, which could easily throw me into Crazy Hyperactive Medicinal Speech Mode. [Editor's Note: That's right, CHMSM. I don't have any feasible idea how one might pronounce or define that, nor do I give a flying (or grounded) care either way.] Regardless, the mystery that surrounds what I hope could be some perpetuation of greatness sends me into shock and an uncontrolled desire to...

...well, actually, I have no idea what it urges me to do. Buy a premium IMDB account?
No. Absolutely not.

Yeah, I've got nothing.

BYESPACE.

It's finally over- I've removed myself from the world of Tom's MySpace, solely for the fact that I never utilize it, fail to recognize its value, and have no desire for it any longer.

Liberation. This is what I'm talking about, little ones.