I WANT HUGH, AND HUGH, AND NOTHING BUT HUGH. THE FISH.

STANDARD ENGLISH IS STUPID.

Tuesdays and Thursdays suddenly scream of "relaxation time."
I love life.
And dropping classes.

"YOUR HAND IS DYING."

I do adore House, but what, dear God, is with the corny lines tonight?
I have never laughed so hard over pnemonia leading to total amputation of the hand.
Never.
And I'm sure I've seen that same scenario at least a few times, right?

NEW RECORDING VERDICT: IT'S FREAKING AMAZING.

Just thought you should know...
I'm so excited for November.

525,600 MINUTES. OR FIFTEEN. WHATEVER.

Going to get the RENT soundtrack...
Hot. Sizzling, even.

BUBLAGUAUGA.

I wonder if I should go to sleep.
Ever?
Maybe?
I have no idea.
(Please don't expect that title to make sense: I'm beyond exhaustion.)

DIABOLICAL SCHEME.

Jennifer Gerhardt and I would like to abduct the following persons:

Alan Rickman
Kenneth Branagh
Hugh Laurie
Colin Firth
Hugh Grant
Matthew Broderick
(And Roger Bart. Just because Kelley has already met him. And insulted him to his face. Sort of jokingly.)
Tony Blair
Martin Freeman
Ricky Gervais
Robert Sean Leonard
Eric McCormack
Sean Biggerstaff
Mark Ruffalo
Guy Pierce
Nathan Lane
Kiefer Sutherland
Joel McHale
Rupert Everett
Wayne Brady
*Jude Law
Stephen Malkmus
Pete Yorn
Harry Connick Jr.
Michael Bubble
Victor Garber
Rufus Wainwright
**Jeff Buckley
**Elliott Smith
James Barbour
Norbert Leo Butz

Could you imagine if one of these people showed up on your doorstep? It would be better than Christmas. It would be better than...well...not having gorgeous men showing up on your doorstep.

*Jude Law present solely for the "Prettiness Factor."
**Were they living, we would "Do" them.

WHAT KIND OF FUNNY AM I? HUH?

the Wit

(66% dark, 26% spontaneous, 26% vulgar)


your humor style:
CLEAN | COMPLEX | DARK

You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.

I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer.

Your sense of humor takes the most thought to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion.

You probably loved the Office. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/.

PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais

MMMMMM.

Sorry.

I needed that.







Ahh. Hugh.

PEOPLE HATE ME.

Clarification: People hate me with a passion.
Why?
STUPIDITY.
Alright, perhaps that's being a bit harsh. They're not entirely stupid; it's the act of being angered at me for something that is Not Of My Doing Or Within My Control that harbors the utmost ignorance.
I can't stand people talking about me behind my back, but on top of that, I can't stand the fact that I've hurt people with no intention, method, or committing any actual "hurting" on my own part.
GROW UP. NOW. GET OVER IT, MOVE ON, LIVE YOUR LIFE LIKE AN ADULT.
I've spent so much time in the last two days accommodating to everyone's ego issues, I haven't been able to sit and relax and acknowledge that I did a good job. That I worked hard for something and earned it, in that order.
It's not gloating, you insolent nimrods- it's acceptance.

LIFE IS RIDICULOUSLY CRAZY.

Too many things going on, but I must admit: that's the way I like it.
Tonight's "Superhero" thing at O.C. White's could prove to be interesting. I need to find some sort of kick-ass costume to liven up the evening, else I be deemed a "dork."
Sort of funny how that works out, isn't it?
Regardless, I'm ready to break out and just spend an evening enjoying the company of human beings that I can speak to and interact with.
Hugh is wonderful, but far from conversational.

AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

I GOT IT!

CALLBACKS.

There are a crapload of callbacks tonight- I have six in total, all of which I imagine will be grueling and mind-boggling.
Or, I don't really care.
Either way.

SMITH: A NEW HOSPITAL DRAMA COMING THIS FALL TO FOX.

I have never broken into tears in the course of a television show. Never. But I was forced to tonight.
Damn you, O Great Writers of House.
Someone was apparently listening to at least a minor amount of hospital dialogue. They got it right. It's crazy, but they really got it right. I sat for an hour, sruggishly recalling all of the moments in the hospital that I spent personally, a bald nine-year-old who, still, has yet to be kissed (Damn that lucky Andie: the girl snagged herself an Aussie).
But that's not my point- I've had doctors like Leonard's Wilson. I've had the occasional "bald-headed midget parade" out the doors of the hospital. I know what it feels like to have a central line, sit through MRI and CT Scan as I'm asked relentlessly what kind of music I'd like to listen to. Hell, I know what it feels like to be told I was going to die. Been there. Done that.
I guess Leonard was the one who tore the biggest hole in my stoicism. I haven't seen Dr. Rossbach in at least five years. I would love to sit down and thank him. I daresay I never necessarily encountered Hugh Laurie in his hospital persona, but I don't really mind that.
Jeez. I don't normally dwell on this kind of thing. I don't like to talk about it. I haven't talked about it in...a really long time. I don't really even like to think about it. Stupid television show...
...that I love.
It's odd to have such a large portion of your life that you've completely ignored for such a long time. Not ignored, I guess; I just haven't dwelled upon it. It hasn't ruled my life, beyond the given dictations of my physicality. (Don't ask, just nod your head in agreement.) It's probably something I need to genuinely sit down and work myself through, but I've just never had the urge to do so. Or the means. Etcetera.
I want to find someone I'd feel comfortable talking to about my past experiences. I've yet to discover one of those, ironically enough.
Alright. I need to focus on something else for a while.

THE ON AND ON.

I'm exhausted, unnerved, and unsure of my situation in reality.
A not-so-wonderful place to find myself in, no?
Sleep.

AN OPEN LETTER TO HUGH.

To my dearest Mr. Laurie-

You were robbed this evening. No questions, no bickering, no humility required. You are the best working actor on television today, and for that, you should be proud.
But you deserved that dinky-little-piece-of-statue-crap. You've earned it.
So, go have fun tonight. Get smashed with Jason, Jessica, and Jeffrey. You all deserved your awards, and should still have the opportunity to celebrate and enjoy one another's company for the evening.
And then, you can beat James Spader with a baseball bat.
Just for fun.

Love always,

Kelley

WELCOME TO THE BEEHIVE.

It's interesting to be so utterly ignored with six people in your own room.
A room, I might add, the size of...well, the size of my room. It is my room.
Duh.
We've got Lindsay Lohan being a "mean girl" on my big-screen television, and they're oggling over communal photo albums. Pictures of hookah bars, best friends, boyfriends, lovers, people they love, people they hate, proms, parks, and all the boring stuff I seem to have no recollection of ever having/documenting through photos.
[Editor's Note: I just found out through word of mouth that I was called back for three out of four conservatory shows. I have no idea what that means at this point, but I'll find out when I see for myself.]
Anyway, I've never been so utterly bored in my life. If I get up and walk out, I'm stuck up. If I stay put, I gouge my eyes out with a Canada Dry Ginger Ale can.
Tee hee!
And the best part is- they're all comparing pictures and talking about the girls on campus. They've begun to blend into the chatter on television. They're "mean girls."
I think I'm going to be sick to my stomach.
But here's the good news- this makes me the Tina Fey of Flagler.
Hot.

O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN.

I've watched Dead Poets Society no less than three times today.
The only movie in the universe that can bring me to tears without effort.
Oh, Robert Sean Leonard. Why? Why must you die with forty minutes of movie left? You're too pretty to die.
Far too pretty.
(Except, you looked old on House tonight. But still hot. Insanely HOT.)

JASON ROBERT BROWN KNOWS AUDITIONS.

I should have told them I was sick last week.
They're gonna think this is the way I sing.
Why's the pianist playing so loud-
Should I sing louder? I'll sing louder.
Maybe I should stop and start over.
I'm gonna stop and start over.
Why's the director staring at his crotch?
Why's that man staring at my resume?
Don't stare at my resume!
I made up half my resume- Look at me!
Stop looking at that- Look at me!
No, not at my shoes,
Don't look at my shoes.
I hate these "bleeping" shoes.
Why'd I pick these shoes?
Why'd I pick this song?
Why'd I pick this career?
WHHHYYYY does this pianist hate me?

So, Tonight = Not So Much Fun.
Ha.

"BROS BEFORE HOS, MAN."

If Hugh Laurie can legally say that to Robert Sean Leonard on network television, my life is finally complete.
And I am totally not a ho.
Fo'real.

THAT LITTLE BLURB IS THE HENRY STATUE. SERIOUSLY.

Google Earth is obviously going to be the downfall of my existence.
But at least it's a fun one.

HISTORY OF THE PONCE DE LEON HOTEL.

"So, one day, Jose' Cuervo and Captain Morgan got into a fight. Captain Morgan's daughter was dating Cuervo's daughter's nephew. It got messy. They got into it, and attacked one another for days.
George Washington was shooting cannons from the fort, which proved pretty useless (as we all know).
And then, Superman flew over and saved all the Jews. But not before Woodrow Wilson's great-grandfather picked out the room where his great-grandson would choose his cabinet someday.
Walt Disney jumped into the mess, and was quickly jumped on. He was then frozen. Cuervo came out victorious in the end, but decided that the whimpy Henry Flagler could buy it in exchange for a Starbucks."

The end.

NEVER BEFORE.

I just met a guy that I could spend the rest of my life with.
I spent twenty minutes with him, but I KNOW.
I don't know how I know. I just do.
I'm going crazy.

THE ADVERTISING SLOGAN GENERATOR.

Just a few AMAZING examples. Feel free to make your own.

I Want My Zazzle.

There's Only One Zazzle.

If You Can't Beat Zazzle, Join Zazzle.

Semper Zazzle.

He Who Thinks Zazzle Drinks Zazzle.

That's Handy, Harry! Stick It In The Zazzle.

I Can't Believe I Ate The Whole Zazzle.

Break Me Off a Piece of That Zazzle.

When It Absolutely, Positively Has To Be Zazzle Overnight.

I'm Not Gonna Pay A Lot For This Zazzle.

Zazzle Is Job 1.

Zazzle Unscripted.

The Ultimate Zazzle Machine.

You Can't Top a Zazzle.

My Zazzle to Yours.

Zazzle, Take Me Away.

Who Would You Have A Zazzle With?

Zazzle, the Other White Meat.

The Incredible, Edible Zazzle.

Because I'm Worth Zazzle.

Crunch All You Want. We'll Make Zazzle.

You Deserve A Zazzle Today.

Your Flexible Zazzle.

Bread Wi' Zazzle Taken Out.

Zazzle - It Does a Body Good.

KEY. BORED.

I'm not lonely- just alone. Confined to the internal space that runs the inner-workings of thought and the psychosis I call Kelley.
It feels wonderful to be trapped within myself. I've spent so much of these last two weeks outwardly focused, attempting to exaggerate the extrovert within, that I haven't stopped to look at me, what I need, what I'm feeling.
Numb. Physically kinetic, but definitely numb.
I would like nothing better than to go walk the beach at this moment, just talking aloud to no one in particular. I suppose this holds the same sort of appeal, yet keeps me locked up in one space for any given amount of time.
Hmm.

QUARTERS, ANYONE?

It's laundry time. Whoa.
It's laundry time. Oh.
It's laundry, laundry, laundry time.
Very best time of day.

WHY PRIVATE COLLEGE ROCKS.

SUNDAY BRUNCH??!!???! WHAT??!!!

What kind of sissy school serves "Sunday Brunch?"
Oh, yeah. That's right- my sissy school.
Freaks.

OH, THE CRAP YOU CAN THINK!

One fish.
Two fish.
Red fish.
Some other cut-out-of-the-picture-fish.

What can I say- I never read Dr. Seuss.
Dumb kid.


(But, at least I'm thinking...Right, Elis?)

COME ON, RIDE THE TRAIN. TROLLEY. WHATEVER.

It's Art Walk night, be-otches.
Be there, or be a geometric object.
Ha!
I am so infinitely clever!


Please, O Higher Being, save me from myself. Pleeeease.

A DAY AT DISNEY.

(In Pictures. Crappy Pictures.)

Early in the morning? Yeah.


It's Belle! And the Beast! Mother of God, that's AMAZING!


Fireworks? At noon? I'm confused.


Believe it or not, this is Father John Patrick Mulcahy from M*A*S*H. Seriously.


Topiary? Or monster?


It's still the scariest part of the park.


SCARY.


Yet another pair of Stolen Disney 3-D Glasses.


I'm a Space Cadet.


And I'm under attack.


Cute alien; Crappy attraction.


Big mouthed freak...


...I mean...Uh, the hippo is cool. Really cool. And hot.

All in a day's work. A pretty freaking amazing day's work. Of not-work.