QUESTION #2

When catching a fish becomes that of a moral dilemma, have you (metaphorically speaking, of course)"lost it?"

QUESTION #1

Do you have the right to "miss" someone who probably doesn't realize that you continue to exist?

WHAT GENIUSES THINK ABOUT:

today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
i'm doomed to georgia this weekend. it's like a fate worse than a fate worse than death
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
eww. i'm doomed to st. pete this weekend. kind of like georgia, but fewer peaches, i believe.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
yeah. and no tea with enough sugar to make it the equivalent of syrup
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
what will you being doing while there?
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
taking care of my should-already-be-dead-grandmother.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
how crummy. so you gather knitting needles and yarn for her, maybe? and pet her cats?
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
no, no cats. just old people in an assisted living facility...
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
ah. i guess the cats are banned due to allergy reasons
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
no, just because they are consistently more active than the entirety of the nursing home population. it makes the ones who can still see rather discouraged.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
that's a valid point you have. do you think that perhaps those who work there should do the seeing ones a favor and swipe their bi-focals?
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
perhaps. that could prove the solution to all problems.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
i mean, they don't really *need* the glasses: they don't drive, their meals are delivered, they're escorted everywhere, they don't have to sign bills or hit buttons on the remote because people do that for them
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
the cats might bring some new found life to nursing homes nationwide
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
actually.. they might be the only life there
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
maybe we could institute a program: a program that brings these lively creatures to visit the elderly, giving them one teensy bit of hope worth clinging onto in the midst of desperation....
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
only, we must use retarded cats.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
cats that also can't see or hear very well, and are generally senile. ... i like where you're going with this. the humane service is going to be thrilled
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
it'll be the perfect match of human and pet
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
yes!
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
=)
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
working together to build a better tomorrow
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
brings a tear to my eye...
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
*sniffs*
You're Really Growing On Me. says:
this is the stuff that makes future Miss America speeches.
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
oh, that it does. it's the stuff that makes good samaritan awards, lifetime achievement honors.... it's the stuff that makes Miss Universe winners
today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday says:
Donald Trump would be proud

“IT’S CALLED ‘CAPITALISM,’ KOVACH. IT PAYS YOUR SALARY.”

Maybe capitalism is the direction I need to head in. Dominating. Powerful. Rich.
[Editor's Note: I was about to type in 'Rick.' I suppose that someone named Rick could hold some very capitalist agenda. So it will remain.]
And Rick.
I've reached a step in my life (a plateau, if you will) that has taken me some time to surmount. I feel that I must abandon all and seek a life of newness, of difference beyond that which I see around me.
I want to be the opposite of the A-type capitalist.
I want to be poor.
Not just in the monetary sense of the word, but I want to be rid of this ungodly, fortunate feeling that surrounds me and everything I'm doing.
I'm disgusted by it.
And I am so unworthy of it.

WHO? ME!? EXCITED? YOU MUST BE OUT OF YOUR MIND.

Or, correct. Either way.
This morning's press release is enough to make me squeal like a rowdy pig in slop.
(Look at the performance announcements to understand why...):

The June 6th telecast of the American Theatre Wing’s 58th annual Tony Awards ceremony will be a star-studded affair.

The CBS broadcast will be hosted by Hugh Jackman [Editor's Note: Ugh.], and will include appearances by the previously announced Nicole Kidman, Tony Bennett, and Mary J. Blige.

On May 26, Executive Producers Ricky Kirshner and Glenn Weiss revealed that joining Ms. Kidman as presenters will include current nominees Anne Heche (Twentieth Century) and Phylicia Rashad (A Raisin in the Sun); two-time Tony winners Nathan Lane [Editor's Note: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES! Okay. I'm done.] (set to return to Broadway next month in The Frogs), John Lithgow (seen on Broadway this season in The Retreat from Moscow), Chita Rivera, and Bernadette Peters (now on Broadway in Gypsy); 2003 Tony winners Billy Joel, Marissa Jaret Winokur and Jane Krakowski; rap star Sean Combs (currently starring on Broadway in A Raisin in the Sun); Rent and Chicago star Taye Diggs; “Saturday Night Live” personality Jimmy Fallon; past Tony-winner Joel Grey (Wicked); Broadway/Hollywood star and novelist Ethan Hawke (Henry IV); two-time Grammy Award-winner LL Cool J; stage and film star Scarlett Johansson (Lost in Translation); star of the upcoming Broadway revival of After the Fall Peter Krause (“Six Feet Under”); past Tony and Oscar nominee and current star of Broadway’s Sight Unseen Laura Linney; 2000 Tony winner Brian Stokes Mitchell; film and London stage giant Helen Mirren; Oscar-winner and recent Off Broadway star Anna Paquin; lyricist Carole Bayer Sager (They’re Playing Our Song and The Boy from Oz); 1999 Tony winner Martin Short; stage and film personality Patrick Stewart (this season’s The Caretaker); and noted stage and screen stars Sigourney Weaver and Sarah Jessica Parker.

They also announced that Mary J. Blige and Tony Bennett will each perform a musical salute to Broadway featuring their own interpretations of classic Broadway tunes featured in the newly published Tony Awards Songbook, a collection of songs from Tony Award-winning Best Musicals. Blige will perform “What I Did for Love” from the 1976 Best Musical A Chorus Line, while Bennett will deliver his rendition of “The Lullaby of Broadway” from 42nd Street, the 1981 winner. [Editor's Note: That should be a sad moment for Broadway.]

The Tony telecast will include performances of the following numbers from nominated Best Musicals and Best Musical Revivals:

Assassins ­ Nominees Michael Cerveris, Denis O’Hare and company [Editor's Note: That little caption "and company" reveals that James Barbour is performing. James. My little Jamesy-poo. Ahh...] will perform “Everybody’s Got the Right.” Avenue Q ­ Nominees John Tartaglia, Stephanie D’Abruzzo and company will entertain with “It Sucks to Be Me.” [Editor's Note: Luckily for me, it's my absolute favorite number in the show.] The Boy from Oz ­ Nominee Hugh Jackman will prove (as Peter Allen) that he is “Not the Boy Next Door.” Caroline, or Change ­ Nominee Tonya Pinkins will sing “Lot’s Wife.” Fiddler on the Roof ­ Nominee Alfred Molina will lead the company in “Tradition.” [Editor's Note: We'll have to see how little Alfred can compare to the omnipotent Zero.] Wicked ­ Nominees Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth will perform the show’s act-one finale, “Defying Gravity.” [Editor's Note: Well, duh. What else would they perform? A Joel Grey number? No. They're both up for Best Leading Actress, and by God, they're going to milk it for more than it's worth. I just can't wait to see Menzel fight for a high note and ruin Chenoweth's chances, too.] Wonderful Town ­ Nominee Donna Murphy will lead the company in the production number “Swing.”
The executive producers also announced that the telecast will include moments from this year’s Best Play nominees (Anna in the Tropics, Frozen, I Am My Own Wife and The Retreat from Moscow) and Best Revival of a Play nominees (Henry IV, Jumpers, King Lear, A Raisin in the Sun).

Tony Night officially gets underway at 6:00 p.m. (ET) here at TonyAwards.com where you can view the stars arriving on the red carpet at Radio City Music Hall via our live video webcast. At 7:15 p.m., prior to the telecast, the first six Tony Awards will be will presented, live from the stage of Radio City and webcast via live video exclusively at TonyAwards.com. The only way to watch the presentation of these awards is to be in the house at Radio City or via the webcast on this site. The 2004 Tony Awards telecast, hosted by Hugh Jackman, follows immediately after on CBS, beginning at 8:00 p.m. (ET/delayed PT).

UNTITLED.

I spent nearly two hours yesterday morning with someone overly dear to my heart, obviously, in an overly sappy and pathetic way.
Organizing FCAT books.
It is not that I fear separation or detachment from this person: to an absurd degree, I think I desire it, at least for these next few months. There lies something within friendship, something within the level of complacency in relationships that deteriorate the attractive edginess of first impressions and respectful interaction. That gradual degregation is the integration of something even more costly, yet undeniably sweeter as blooming friendship later unfolds unto its wilted, yet strangely attractive presence- intimacy. "I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade- the sweet charm of freshness would leave it."
Yet it has hardly left, an angle held at least on my end of the emotional spectrum. I've found a mentor, yet feel undignified in claiming this person as such, due to the similar status they hold within the minds and hearts of others more qualified to do so. They are aware of this, as am I, to an even fuller degree this morning than I last night feared. How detrimental it is to claim as a guide one who has already begun leading the journey for so many others! Must I take up new root in some other shore? Find the longing of my soul content in some other being, some other new, refreshing presence, much unlike the one I leave for more to bask beneath?
(How Shakespearian this tragedy seems to one unaccustomed to my passions!)
Yes, the separation is essential. Natural. Progressive. Yesterday was an exercise of my emotional faculties and stamina; the coming weeks will test my intellect beyond anything an instructor could inflict.

THE DOCTOR IS IN.

The Doctor of Pepper, that is.
We stopped at Red Lobster for a mini-meal tonight, and the waiter was on speed to a nauseating degree...Running through the restaurant at seventy-eight miles per hour, he was a traffic accident waiting to happen.
It was dinner and a show.
Not my point.
I feel utterly agitated that I couldn't attend Graduation yesterday. I feel as though some of my friends were counting on me to be there for extra padding and support, yet they were unaware of the circumstances, that of which held me from sitting in that O-Rena and cheering them on.
I feel like crap.
Crap, however, appears to have drug-like qualities which induce mere mortals (such as myself) to agree to what would otherwise be considered "unagreeable situations."
Um, maybe this is neither the time nor the place to divulge.
As I've yet to agree to anything.
But the possibility still lies in the open, ready for a good pouncing.
Ha ha! "Pouncing."
Kind of sounds like "boun--"...
Oh.
Never mind.

THE TIME IS 8:54 PM. DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR LIGHTING TECHNICIAN IS?

Standing next to the inoperable spotlight, thank-you-very-much.

A BREAK, THEY SAY.

I'll give you a break, bi-atch.
We have less than a few minutes until hell once again opens its wide and ghastly mouth to swallow us into the abyss of American Dance Machine.
I broke into the stash of Backel Candy Bars.
(Or granola bars. Either way.)
I must depart, as I'm running the light board and/or poking my eyeballs out one by one.
Fun!
No, I mean, that's funny!

HERE I LIE, WASTING AWAY AT THE DREGS OF A FROZEN WATER BOTTLE.

Poetic?
I think not.
We've been stuck here for what appears to be months, though in all relativity, is simply a mere three hours. Three hours. Never before have three hours so jovially deterred my thought, my sanity, my very vitality.
And the worst news is yet to come: I'm stuck with the lovebirds.
And they won't stop nuzzling.
The word itself reigns in sympathy from my entrails to my eyes.
"I don't want to be here," she says.
Nor do I, you maroon buffoon.
Nor do I.
[Editor's Note: I was editing grammar, and I've continued to type some new thoughts, so, let's just roll with it.]
I've been focused upon one person for the last few days. And maybe it's all because of my rendezvous to the Photo Shop, but something screams that there lies more to it. He didn't travel for his own sanity. I think he left for a reason, and I wonder what that reason will prove to be.
I'm not sure exactly what kind of person he's become. Or what kind of person he's becoming, right now, as I speak (type). He could prove a stranger. He could prove the change I need. I'm not sure which would prove more efficient a distraction.
God, I wish I could channel these thoughts in a more responsive way. I wish I knew what words could adequately define the obsession, the longing, the gripping enthusiasm that I rarely experience beyond the parameters he encompasses.
You know what they say: If wishes were horses...
Strong, powerful beings, restless, longing, and clinging to their instincts alone. Yes. Horses.
My wishes are horses, galloping, proud, fearless and dominant horses. Willful. Pioneering. Passionate.
Fiery.

I BELIEVE IN A THING CALLED LOVE.

Maybe not, but I can't get anything partially related to The Darkness out of my head...It's "really growing on me."
Heh! How amazingly hilarious!
Or not.
My junior year is finally over, which means I will spend the next few months plotting my post-high school adventure, namely, college. It should be an interesting quest.
For the time being, I have a nine-hour job to attend to...
And a guarantee you, there will be Audio Blogging involved.

IT'S MUCH TOO EARLY TO HAVE ANY SELF-RECOGNITION.

Early?
Late?
There is absolutely no difference.
I've been thinking, which is difficult and scary for all parties involved, and normally leads to brooding, the root of all Kelley-evil.
Just thinking. It's rather disturbing, actually, the amount of time we sit, taking part in nothing but the exaggerated notions of glory in our own minds. And we do, of course. It's no exaggeration by itself. Simply fact.
Factually simple.
The D: it will be like talking about rochester with rochester
Me: except a girly, prada kind of rochester.
It has been one of those days.

CHEESEBURGER, PLEASE, DO NOT GET ANGRY.

I'm on the rampage...That is, I must pack and contain the ever-flowing excitement that our weekend voyage to St. Petersburg is stirring up within me.
I'm just so happy.
Actually, I hope it will provide ample opportunity for me to catch up on reading, as I must start The Plague, not to mention the nonexistent attachment I have with Nathan Lane and his new flavorings of showtune recordings which I have cough, cough, bootlegged, cough, off the grand ole' internet.
Away I go.

"JUST GOTTA GET OUT; JUST GOTTA GET RIGHT OUT OF HERE-A!"

So, it's the final day of a Jen-infested newspaper, and Adobe Hates Me, Volume 1, has made its glorious debut.
We're all very focused, I assure you.
I need to finish writing her yearbook insert thingy, but beyond that, today has the faint air of parting, its lingering essence suffocating me and intoxicating the general atmosphere.
It effing sucks.
Oh, well. Here's to The Chipmunk.

I'M NOT ONE TO STEAL SOMEONE ELSE'S MATERIAL, BUT THERE'S ALWAYS ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT.

Aries: (March 21—April 19)
You love pointing out that you were raised by wolves, but you never mention that they were Harvard-educated, old-money Boston wolves.

Taurus: (April. 20—May 20)
Not that it's really the Zodiac's business, but most people take the dead goldfish out of the tank before adding new ones. The same goes for the drowned cats.

Gemini: (May 21—June 21)
Plastic bags are not a toy, but you understand that they can still be a lot of fun if you use them to smother children.

Cancer: (June 22—July 22)
You may say there's nothing wrong with you that a week in the Bahamas won't cure, but the stars recommend you get the chemotherapy.

Leo: (July 23—Aug. 22)
The stars have always been a great influence on your fate. This will never be as true as it is next week, when a certain yellow G-type variable star cuts loose with a really impressive flare.

Virgo: (Aug. 23—Sept. 22)
Everyone has problems, but they don't all expect the whole universe to come to a standstill because of them. Only about half of them expect that.

Libra: (Sept. 23—Oct. 23)
You'll no longer have any reason to doubt the transcendent power of love after you see it obliterate an entire armored division in military tests.

Scorpio: (Oct. 24—Nov. 21)
Some people would cut off their nose to spite their face, but you're not like that. You did it because you thought it would make you look like a wingless man-bat hybrid.

Sagittarius: (Nov. 22—Dec. 21)
A bizarre misunderstanding on your part will result in your going to church every Sunday and speaking sincerely to invisible entities with the belief that it might do you some sort of good.

Capricorn: (Dec. 22—Jan. 19)
Your millions can't help you find love and happiness, especially because the word "millions" here doesn't indicate any sort of monetary unit.

Aquarius: (Jan. 20—Feb. 18)
You'll watch as dozens die in a bus accident, but take heart: Everyone will know there was nothing you could have done without severely inconveniencing yourself.

Pisces: (Feb. 19—March 20)
You've been forced to conclude that people are just no good, no matter how you slice, puree, braise, fry, or sauté them.

Thank you, Mr. Onion.

YOU'RE A GOOD WEBSITE, MR. ONION.

Spawn Of Satan A Failure In Father's Eyes
TUSTIN, CA—The humanoid spawn of Satan, Belial K. Ravana, 16, has proven to be a huge disappointment to his father, His Satanic Majesty reported from Hell Tuesday. "Apparently, young Belial started a fire in the garbage can at school today," Satan said. "When I begat young Belial, I had high hopes that he would follow in my cloven-hoofsteps. At his age, I was scorching the earth in hellfire, flensing the skin off of infants, and making the streets of Babylon run red with the blood of the righteous." Satan said he hopes Belial will turn it around and "at least rape the principal" before the semester's end.

BREATHE, KELLEY. BREATHE.

Nathan Lane's older brother is the principal for Middletown High School South in NJ. He's not good looking, like Nathan, but he's sentimental, and I think I need to email him and promise sex and/or money in order to get me closer into the Lane family.

AMERICAN THEATRE WING: YOU'RE GOING DOWN, BI-ATCH.

I was just perusing my favorite theatre sites (You know: this one, and that one, oh, and you can't forget this one), when I come across the announcement that, yes, my life is over, as Hugh Jackman, that Peter-Wannabe, is hosting the June 6th ceremony.
I was upset.
But what infuriated me was glancing through the official ATW site and finding myself distracted with their little "Did You Know?" footnotes that bug the hell out of me, seeing as I know what they're talking about already.
I know. Stop asking me, ATW.
But my point is, I grew into a raging inferno of vicious fury when I read this lovely little caption:

Did You Know?
Angela Lansbury has hosted or co-hosted more Tony telecasts than any other individual, with five telecasts (1968, 1971, 1987, 1988, and 1989). Tied in second place, with three telecasts each, are Julie Andrews (1970, 1984, and 1991), Robert Preston (1967, 1974, and 1984), and Rosie O'Donnell (1997, 1998, and 2000).

It's a good thing that they don't have any sort of question/comment service set up on the website, because they'd be receiving hate mail by the gallon-- Nathan Lane ties in that second place ranking for hosting/co-hosting the 1995, 1996, and 2001 Tony Award ceremonies.
Die, American Theatre Wing.
Die.

"JOHN KERRY IS A DOUCHE BAG, BUT I'M VOTING FOR HIM ANYWAY," SAYS EVERY CONCERNED CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES.

And now, a website!

NOT ONLY DOES THIS CONSTITUTE AS THE SADDEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN, BUT IT STARS MADONNA.

Paulo? What are you doing?!

COME ON. GET HAPPY.

That should do it.

IT'S TOO LATE, BABY.

I have decided to slap someone tomorrow. I'm not sure who it will be, or for what exact reason, but I will slap someone, and it should not come as a surprise if it happens to be you.

DAVID DUCHOVNY, WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME?

I have to sing for little kids. I don't want to. I think I'll let my dry throat go die.
Ha!

TUTTLE FEST 2004

We spent this entire Alpha period swapping Lindsey Tuttle stories...Most of which involved stalking, butt cracks, and/or Courtney Love. It was a nice morning.
Now, I'm ready to throw up.
I mean, Perform.

GUESS HOW MUCH OF THIS LETTER IS DEVOTED AS AN AP LANGUAGE ESSAY, AND HOW MUCH IS TRULY SENTIMENTAL.

What a strange and interesting journey it has been! I simply cannot believe that tonight is the finale of nearly three months of exhausting, grueling, sometimes painful work. Two evenings ago, the curtain opened, and we all witnessed what I believe to be the most thrilling and terrifying portion of live theatre: the culmination, the opening, the chance for the world to experience that which you’ve devoted all heart and energy towards. And to some degree, their reaction can either lift up or entirely destroy the passion and perseverance that has gone into a show’s production. Luckily, none of us had to worry about that.
I feel blessed that your first show at Lyman became one of such community, such remarkable teamwork. I hope you feel those same sentiments; if not, I hope you can still walk away from this evening feeling connected to something, or at least accomplished in your magnificent work. But you must believe me when I say I have never been placed on a collaborative effort such as this. I know that our experiences have differed in the past few weeks with my transition into the ghastly “Booth of Death,” but the months I’ve shared with you and the other members of our crew were both exciting and entertaining. We’ve laughed together over subjects that hardly deserve laughter; yet still, we’ve found ourselves wrapped up in moments of difficult emotion, whether they were validated or not. We have become a unit, a moving, breathing machine that reacts when reaction is necessary and thrives in its work. I could not have asked for a better experience.
To work with you has been a great pleasure, and I truly mean that. You have been a column of support for the entire crew, and I cannot possibly reiterate what your expertise has meant to those of us working with you day in and day out. To make the gigantic and often horrific leap from middle to high school is difficult enough: to immerse yourself in hectic schedules and demanding routines, all in the midst of classes and outside obligations, is a terrific struggle. I commend you for persevering in and achieving all that you do.
To know you, however, has been the greatest gift I could have asked for. You have an unceasing amount of courage and excitement that fills the atmosphere of everywhere you step. I have enjoyed the small time we’ve shared together more than you could possibly imagine, and the forthcoming gap between productions will prove a nice break, but a disheartening separation from you, and the entire cast and crew that I have come to love so dearly. I truly thank you for the time we’ve been sent together, and I could not have been blessed with a greater friend and colleague than you.
To reiterate my gratitude (And, hell, just for fun), you’ll find that this little gift bag contains some of the things that I love and enjoy the most. The first and far most important is, of course, chocolate. Dark chocolate, at that. It’s one of the few candies that I rarely part myself from, and I think they are treats well deserving of your taste buds. Enjoy, and hide them from everyone else. The second is a little more heartfelt. When I traveled to State competition this year, I found myself walking through boutiques of Thespian apparel, key chains, necklaces, and overall, gaudy, inexpensive trinkets. None of them appealed to me, and so I continued onto some of the local, Tampa “exclusive” stores. When I found this little creature, staring up at me, I immediately picked him off the shelf and took him to the register. After reaching my hotel room that evening, I realized that his arms were Velcro-ed together, and that he was, indeed, intended to act as one, big, giant hug. Tonight, I give him to you. It’s my way of saying, “I will always be here if you need me, and I’ll even be here if you don’t.” He’s my gift of an eternal hug. Use it wisely.
Two pages of glabboring crap.
How much better can it get?

WELL, NOW. THAT DOES MAKE SENSE. GO RIGHT ON AHEAD, MISS DICTATOR OF THE UNIVERSE.

What would be your future profession? by vyvyan
Name
Age
Sex
Education
Your future profession	The next George W. Bush (we all hate you already!)
Created with quill18's MemeGen 3.0!

I'M JUST A LOVE MACHINE. AND, I DON'T WORK FOR NOBODY BUT ME.

Oh, yeah.
Tony.

"FENG SHUI BROUGHT MY LIFE TO ORDER," SAYS THE DYSLEXIC TOASTER MIT.

Or not. It's crackpot, at best.
And off I go to Physics.
Hoorah.

THE REVEREND DERK SCHUDDE HAS SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT THE 9/11 TRAGEDY.

At Winter Park's St. Margaret Mary Catholic Church, bathed in the light beaming in through stained-glass windows, about 200 worshippers gathered as the Rev. Derk Schudde reminded them that their faith would be tested during difficult, and often unexplainable, times.
Their job is to believe that God had a plan for each of them, no matter how mysterious: "Even when it's not easy; even when our doubts are greater than our trust; even when tragedies happen and people die and we don't know why God wasn't there to stop it," he said.
Thank you, Orlando Sentinel, for making my day. This is your shining moment.

STARING CATATONIC OUT THE WINDOW.

I think that I'm immensely grateful to be back at home.
Not that State wasn't amazing.
I'm just too compulsively depressing to shudder back into the light, explaining in all its wonder, the glory of State.
I really need to get back on track. Alright. I'll jump through quickly on a day-by-day basis:
---WEDNESDAY: Lost Elis. Found Elis. Rode on the bus. Arrived. Unpacked. Watched a series of terrible one-acts. Went to the hotel. Changed. "Gussied ourselves up," if you will. Trudged back to the TPAC. Spotted Mr. Don Jones, Man Of The Century. Drooled over Michael J. Higgins and his grey tux. Perhaps that was just me. Trudged back to the hotel. Slept.
---THURSDAY: Woke up. Went back to sleep. Woke up. Dragged ourselves out to the Convention Center. I auditioned. I sucked. Watched events. Went back to the hotel. Changed. Ran to the new "Upstairs Dining" at the TPAC curtsey of Don Jones. Don Jones bussed our tables. Leaped into "Nine Armenians!" Skipped (and jaywalked) to the Tampa Theatre for "The Effects of Gamma Rays on Man On The Moon Marigolds." Jaywalked back to the hotel, where I waited for the return of our other troupe members. Gathered in the Chaperone Room Of Death and gabbed about the evening's events. Got a call from Walt. Slept.
---FRIDAY: Woke up rather briskly. Paced to First Watch. Ate potatoes. Traveled to the Convention Center for the Cappies workshop. Won M&M's. Helped Backel win M&M's. Looked at vending tables. Bought $5 shirt for the sheer reason that it was black and had "HELL" written at the bottom. Watched events. Lots of events. Talked about Don Jones. Ran back to the hotel. Changed. Sat for two hours staring at the television, watching The Simpsons and That 70's Show. Held Kevin back from breaking into my room. Meandered to the Tampa Theatre for "Proof." Held a burping contest. No, wait, that was the row of girls behind me. Sorry. I was mistaken. Talked to Kevin about his Girl Problems. Talked to Bill. Made friends with Bill forever. Trudged back to the hotel. Slept. Got a bad call from Walt. Made a pot of coffee. Slept.
---SATURDAY: Yanked myself from bed. Pulled on Converse as I was walking out of the hotel. Sat at First Watch. Ate nothing, drank a Coke. Didn't have to pay for said Coke. Walked to the TPAC. Stood by the waterfront. Talked to Chaz about his Girl Problems. Watched "The Importance Of Being Ernest." Was locked out of "School House Rock." Was snuck into "School House Rock." Loved "School House Rock." Watched "Baby." Cried that I had to watch "Baby," which turned out not to be the musical version. Went shopping at the Center Store. Almost stole at T-shirt that read: "Trouble. Right here in River City." Ran to The Asian Chef (formerly Ho-Ho's). Reinforced Child Labor. Laughed about Child Labor. Went back to the Convention Center. Met up with Mary. Walked back to the Hotel. Changed, and took degrading photos of Elis covering me with makeup. Headed over to Ferguson Hall. Watched the Mime Showcase that contained only minor instances of Mime Technique. Jumped into Morsannni Hall. Watched the Critic's Choice performances. Wondered when the REAL Critic's Choice performances would begin. Was astonished when someone said "they already have." Cried. Swept into Closing Ceremonies. Realized that Don Jones was receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award. Cried. Screamed after he performed "The Monologue" from "The Fantasticks." Talked to Don Jones as soon as the doors were opened for intermission. Hugged Don Jones. Went back inside Morsanni. Watched the Critic's Choice performances. Wondered when the REAL Critic's Choice performances would begin. Was astonished when someone said "they already have." Cried. Shouted for joy when the Amazing large group musical number took the stage and helped me remember what we were actually here to celebrate. Stayed for the dance. "Stood" in the dance tent, also defined as "dancing." Found help for an injured girl. Took her to Don Jones. Don Jones had everything under control. Went back to the hotel. Packed. Slept.
---SUNDAY: Packed. Cleaned the room. Headed downstairs. Got on the bus. Left Tampa. Cried.
Draining week? You tell me. I'm just not sure I want to go further into the State experience than I'm forced to. It's been difficult.

OKAY. THIS ONE IS PRETTY GOOD. (EVEN THE COMMENT ABOUT LESBIANS MAKES ME SMILE.)

LIVERMORE, CA - In a move that caught almost everyone by surprise, stem cells have organized into a powerful special interest group. "We didn't think they could communicate, much less hold meetings," said a scientist at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, still reeling from the shock. Researchers theorize that the stem cells, long suspected of having souls, have been holding get-togethers in the spiritual dimension. Among the demands, spelled out in a petri dish with unused segments of DNA, the stem cells insist on having their own annual parade "with floats and crap." "They're feisty," said Wolf Nichols, head of stem cell research. "Especially the lesbian stem cells. Can I say that?"

I'M NOT SURE WHY I'M THINKING ABOUT HARM-FARM, BUT I AM.

BEETSVILLE, OH – After a tragic communication mixup, Flossie Mongo devoured her husband of 30 years, Lester. "I asked my doctor if I should get on that Atkins diet and lose weight by eating meat. He just got all serious-like and said -- and I'm quoting now -- ‘Just eat Les.' At least that's what I thought he said. Now he claims there was a silent s on the end of Les." Mrs. Mongo explained that her husband had been riding her hard to follow whatever orders the doctor gave her for losing weight. "He was a real hard ass. I mean literally, I could hardly chew threw it." After a net gain of nearly 150 pounds in one day, Mrs. Mongo admits her other big mistake: "I should have spaced it out. That was way too much for one meal. But I worked up quite an appetite with all the stabbing and sawing. You have no idea." She adds, wistfully, "I'll miss him, but quiet is good too."

"HEY. THAT IS MY SINGING 'BE HAPPY' BASS, AND IT BETTER STILL BE UP THERE...INCLUDING THE BATTERIES."

Gilmore Girls fix.
So sue me.
I'm still not packed out for State, I've barely touched the Plyler essay, and I could not care less about anything...
Tomorrow, I leave for Tampa.
It will be amazing.
And I'll see Alex.
That will be amazing. Or at least has the possibility of being amazing.
Egad.

THE SAT IS FOR SLEEP.

Actually, it was a nice opportunity to mingle with races from other public high schools...And to eventually be scorned by them.
I have yet to pack for State, which is a bad thing, seeing as we leave in 48 hours. Of course, I also have homework to do, and old-man pants to buy, and so on...
It's going to be a fun two days.

I clack and rattle at these keys with whatever feeble vapor still doth possess me. I am worn from weary travel, along the outskirts of sanity and the underlying meanings of reclamation. I feel the drudging pressure of burden and leadened sorrows slung daintily across the breadth of my shoulder-span. Each ungreased mechanism, each rusted joint flex into solid grooves, scraped and eroded from the continual back and forth of effort, of work, of valued labor.
Here lies the blind spot within my human nature. Here, in the perpetual glow and aura of light itself, I sit, my metallic soul basking in the utmost of void and the deepest of hues. It's hardly an instance of emotion or bleak, flailing anger; it lies solely in the context of alienated remorse, secluded regret, and, logistically, base and vile misunderstanding.
Why must I seek to restore shattered crystal that has degraded its value with each re-plastered shard?
Why must I remain so blind to the agonizing pleas of the few, the masses that surround me, crowding in ever closer, whispering my name with their impetuous and shrill voices filled with notes of a query I cannot possibly hope to supplement?
Why doth my heart retain its beating and my lungs possess pure breathing when that which lurks inside threatens to expose my ever-collapsing inhumanities?
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining?
Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of hell a-glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes, the danger must be growing
'Cause the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing.

HER NAME IS ALBERTA; SHE LIVES IN VANCOUVER.

AP Language, tomorrow, you will have met your match.
But for this evening, I laugh at how you dangle mercilessly just hours over my head.
At the moment, I'm on my way to the couch about six inches away from this chair, on which I will rest for a minimum of two/three hours, after which I will drag myself off of and trickle down south in the general direction of Venice, to celebrate the 70th birthday of my great-aunt, Frank.
[Editor's Note: Aunt Frank makes much more sense than Uncle Frank. Trust me.]
I'm certainly ready for "spring break" to reach the ultimate in closure. It's held very little for me, not to mention the angry extent to which I've realized that I wish desperately to strangle my ailing grandmother any chance in which I'm "blessed" with a visit...Think strangulation by spring roll.
Duck and soy sauce packets to follow, I guarantee.
MSG'd!

I AM PROUD OF AMERICA'S ASSENT INTO BATTLEDOME STATUS.

This should explain everything.

GOD ATTACK THE QUEEN: SEND BIG DOGS AFTER HER THAT BITE HER BUM.

I remain eternally jealous that Eddie Izzard posted something onto Warren's comment area on MySpace...
Imagine that: a transvestite and a male lesbian.
But we digress.
There's been a rowdy game of Phone Tag ensuing for the last three days between Elis, B-Rock, and myself, and our adventure tomorrow/Wednesday is becoming bleaker and bleaker by the moment...Unless I happen to let them catch me, undoubtedly losing the Phone Tag Cup and various Phone Tag Prizes, but ensuring that I'm not stuck riding the monorail with that dastardly fiend, Goofy.
Forsooth.
I'm going to meander my way out into the wilderness of my front yard, at which point I viciously accost our leaf blower, set it in reverse [Editor's Note: Now, a leaf sucker.], and destroy the leafy landscape that surrounds our home...
Ha, ha! I laugh in an evil yet gallant fashion!

AND THIS YEAR, THE EMO AWARD IS PRESENTED TO:

Have you ever had anyone look into your eyes?
I mean really look into your eyes.
It feels as if they know all the thoughts your thinking.
It is both exhilarating and terrifying.
It makes me tingle and it makes me melt.
And it's how I feel every time he looks at me.
Oh, yeah. I think so.

MEH.

Well, our Political forum will momentarily surpass 900 posts...Which just proves how much time the AP Language students have to bicker ignorantly about topics they have little understanding of.
Always a good thing.
I'm excited that this is the last hour I'll spend in the News Room for a little over a week. The hour could not end quickly enough.
Swizzle. Pammo isn't here today. And she has to sign my State form.
Oh, swizzle.

THE FOLLOWING BLOG ENTRY ALSO EXISTS ON ANOTHER JOURNALING WEBSITE. IF YOU HAVE ANY RETORTS TO THIS BLATANT SELF-PLAGIARISM, EMAIL ME AT seeifigiveacrap@barrynet.com.

[Editor's Note: Click on the link. I dare you.]
So, perhaps I could find a little more time over the next few weeks to blab all over my poor, lonely blog until it's covered in spittle and is utterly boiling over with rantified Kelley-in-a-bottle.
Ugh. Imagery.
What to say...Well, it's Wednesday, which implies that tomorrow should be Thursday, which guarantees that Spring Break will begin as soon as Wolfy proposes to Elise and breaks the heart of her softball-playing-parrot-toting-lover, Ms. Kimball.
That seems to make sense.
What will the break hold? I'm not so sure.
Any suggestions?

HOW DO YOU EXPRESS ABSOLUTE, UTTER, PAINFUL EXHAUSTION IN ONE SENTENCE; ONE MEAGER SENTENCE CANNOT POSSIBLY EXPOUND UPON THE UTMOST MENTAL FATIGUE, THE EPITOME OF INTERNAL STRIFE: LOSS, ACHING, PULLING, AGONIZING, STRENUOUS, DILAPIDATED, UNASSISTED THOUGHT.

I guess that's how.

"EWW. PLEASE TELL ME THEY'RE NOT FLIRTING ON BLACKBOARD."

So, the Political Board has exploded in what is claiming to be "virtuous debate."
I hang my head in shame at those rabble rousers...
Saturday was the night at Sak to end all evenings. Byron kidnapped my oblique frame, and we romped on a magical bus to view the late show for absolutely no cost!
I don't know if I can go into significant detail in my typing...It's something that can only fully express itself in spoken Kelley dialect, and I certainly don't have the energy to translate via keyboard.
Not when I have multiple choice questions to complete.

MMM...CRABS.

I don't see what's so wrong with Stalin's Crab Army.
As long as they bring butter.

NO ONE MOURNS THE WICKED.

Which is probably why no one has bothered to call me this afternoon.
Heh. I'll deal.
Actually, the week has finally subsided, with nothing but our State meeting this evening, followed by a lesson in self-preservation I'd like to call Keeping Kelley Awake During The Drama IV Show. It's a working title, but we're proud of it.
Crash, go the cymbals.
So, Elis is off in La La Land [Editor's Note: The land was decisively named by the King himself, La La La Voom, III.] with new beau, Matt; K-Max has asked Jen-Gerh to the Prom [Editor's Note: Giggle.]; CMoore cannot stop complaining about his love life [Editor's Note: Which currently involves both Anthony and Casey, his "biznits."].
Kelley is single, and all is well.
Haha! Haha!
I feel like dancing to "Eye Of The Tiger" in utter victory fashion.

"I JUST THOUGHT I'D LET YOU KNOW," SAYS VERTICAL HORIZON.

We have taken the liberty of adopting another fallen squirrel. He was surrogately named "Peanut," but something within me screams for change in that process. Something more legitimate, perhaps.
I'm pulling for "Paul."
[Editor's Note: As in "Plyler," not "Stalker."]

IT'S BEEN A HARD DAY'S NIGHT.

I've been popping pills like a pathetic poodle. Which is alliteration, if you care to know.
I am in Physics. I am obviously doing a great deal of work.
In total reality, I'm addicting fellow classmates to MySpace. Soon, the world will be dominated by a race unaccustomed to legitimate internet research, but only mindless drooling on websites devoted to "upping your friend count."
The true dream of millions.

HAS PAPAPHOBIA GOT YOU DOWN?

That would be fear of the Pope/Papacy, as I have just found out in the midst of my early-morning research...Some of my top picks at this point are:
Dying or death- Thanatophobia.
Englishness- Anglophobia.
Children- Pedophobia.
Criticized severely, or beaten by rod or instrument of punishment- Rhabdophobia.
Flogging or punishment- Mastigophobia.
Ideas- Ideophobia.
Leprosy- Leprophobia or Lepraphobia.
There are more to come, I assure you...

I'M DOING WHAT I WANT TO, EVEN IF I'M NOT TO.

Like a ch-ch-chi--chicken.
Hooray for Comprehensive Theatre. Or not.
I spent Valentine's Day at home and watching TV, which is quite some movement from last year's "I-Think-I'm-On-A-Date-But-I'm-Not-Sure-And-Wait-We're-Going-To-SCC..."
Very romantic, I assure you.
I'm thinking that perhaps I'm called to live alone, cryptically cynical, and nonetheless intelligent...But alone, so that I can let my grueling imagination fester; so that this paralysis I call "the inept" can simply leave me alone. It would be much less time consuming and wholly beneficial to my mental state of being, so much deteriorated already.
I like the bitterness. I’m not willing to compromise it by becoming “mushy.”

GET OUT OF MY SPACE BEFORE I SHOOT YOU...

I'm not sure what it is about that site that possesses myself and millions others to spend long, empty hours staring at our own profiles, and the nonsensical profiles of others...
But if Eddie is doing it, there can't be that much harm involved.
I long for Orlando again, as I sit, reclined in my grandmother's computer chair (Aptly named "cushionless" by the people who truly count: Me.), inept at thought and the process of expelling said thought.
I need to go "journal."
If I remember what a pen feels like.

WHO NEEDS THE QUICK-E-MART? NOT ME!

I'm just making up things at this point.
I decided to ditch the Identifications and try to finsh them up over the weekend...And that really doesn't bother me right now...What I need to get cracking on is my AP Language stuff...
Look at what P-Dawg posted:
Kell"e"y - How does Seven of Nine fit into the scheme of things? I was a huge "Voyager" fan. Mr. Plyler
[Editor's Note: And after seeing that, I am both mortified and smitten...And slightly scared.]
Chaz and I are set to work the Football Awards tonight at 5:30, which should be only minor work, and I plan to spend the entire evening just hanging out with him and working on Drama III "directorial notes," as Custodio would like to say...

SO, THAT WAS FUN.

Auditions during Drama III...Amusing. Perplexing.
What other adjectives have I to utilize?
Oh, that's right. BORING.
I enjoyed making an absolute fool out of myself [Editor's Note: And after losing Grandma to HARMONY, I don't know how much more of a fool I can become...], finding myself cast in at least one interesting role (The mother from The Effects Of Gamma Rays On Man On The Moon Marigolds), and I definitely had fun ignoring directors' instructions and just being there.
Here's what I've deliberately decided upon:
It's not worth my anger.
It's not worth my frustration.
It's not worth re-living over and over again to figure out what she did right and I did wrong.
Totally not worth it.
I am so, so looking forward to Valentine's Day.
Yeah.

LA, LA, LA-AAA, LA. I AM POPULAR.

Or not. I'm actually hooked on some of the songs in Wicked. Which is thoroughly distracting considering I'm trying to function as a normal human being without breaking into song every few seconds...
Ehh.

RHETORICALLY CHALLENGED AM I.

That's how I feel tonight- allusionless and hardly willing to fight the deviating fronds of syntax...
Not that I really have to. After all, it is Saturday; 'tis Slackerday for all.
Tweed. Everytime I start to write something interesting, it's too late to do so.
'Tis night.

YOU'RE REALLY GROWING ON ME...

It's good that it's Friday...Saturday. Whatever.
For lack of good manners, I would have "up and pulled an Ashley" if the week had detained me viciously any longer. Now, I have time to think, sleep, and expand upon *crazy* notions of normalcy. Heh. Even joking about it makes me giggly.
Giggle.

NOTICE ANYTHING ODD?

Hmm...What's Gene's last name on the business card?
I thought so.

MY NEW CATCH PHRASE: WARDROBE MISFUNCTION.

I don't know...There's something about seeing this that really calls me to value the productive effort of a tiny little network called MTV.

OH, MY IRREPARABLY DAMAGED MENTAL FRAME!

I'm a bit woozy.
Which is a fun word.
Not my point.
Anyway, I'm trying to get past this whole "Super Bowl Sunday Thing" without much damage and/or brutality, but depending on the circumstances, I'm game for a little bloodshed.
It's been a long weekend.
Last night was amusing and girly, as it was Nickie's birthday party. I hung out with Rob the Terrible, some nerdy guy at the concession stand who I wished I could continue flirting with, and Eeek-King himself, Mike.
SAK is where it's at.
I really need to drop off of this internet connection, lest someone should die and need to call me to give word of said death...
Woozy.

GARY SOTO IS COOL. ALMOST AS COOL AS BLACKBOARD.

Okay. So, maybe that statement is entirely sarcastic and demeaning to all parties involved...
I certainly hope so.
I've ceased revision after revision, annotation, and seek a nice, relaxing Friday.

I WIN, I WIN, I WIN.

Who rocks the house? Kelley rocks the house.

HAVE I STOPPED TO SAY HOW MUCH I HATE YOU LATELY?

That was actually intended to be humorous...You just have to imagine the sappy love music in the background...Which seems to be following me everywhere this week.
I long for some sleep.
But beyond that, I'm not the most competent human being, which helps, I suppose.
I haven't emailed Anthony back.
I haven't emailed Adam back.
I feel awful about that. About leaving them email-less and possibly friendless and definately more depressed as a result of less Kelley in their lives...
Who am I kidding?
I need them a whole lot more than they could ever need me...
Hmm. Not the happiest of thoughts.

"YOU HAVE TWENTY SECONDS TO GET THIS BLOOD OFF THE FLOOR BEFORE I DISQUALIFY YOU, TROUPE 1983!"

Districts was eventful, to say the least.
I made out with Superior Tech for Baby With The Bathwater, Superior Ensemble Acting for I Hate Hamlet, Excellent Playwriting for Plainclothes Leo, and All Star Tech, again for Baby.
I rocked the house.
Okay, maybe not so much...But I am excited to see the judication forms and determine whether I was in any way a support for those Superiors, or if I was simply annoying enough that the District judges felt obliged to put the State judges through the same meticulous pain...
I have quite a bit of work to do, least of which is absorbing myself completely in all AP Language persuits, which means that I can't slack off else I am murdered by the Almighty Himself, P-Dawg.
By the by, there was a Plyler judge this weekend. He had quite some sense of style, I must say...
And Kennith. Oh, dearest Kennith.

BREATHING, I AM, BUT TO NO SUREFIRE AVAIL...

I don't think a word in that sentance even makes sense. I don't think anyone cares, either. So, I guess it works out.
I don't think I'm ready for Districts, or even classes today and rhersal after school...I have so little information, so little motivation, it makes me giggly...
Ugh. I have to get ready to sleep in Physics...
Nighty night, Blog.

WE ARE THE GEPHARDTS! MIGHTY MIGHTY GEPHARDTS!

We could be the GERHARDTS too, I suppose...But let's be honest with ourselves...
Give Dick a Chance.
Preview was actually a nice event this evening, and all went rather smoothly, with the exception of my conscience derailing me from viciously murdering The Man Whore and He Who Does Not Speak English on lights and sounds, respectively. Luckily, I will still be at fault in the eyes of The Troll.
And the world is at peace.
[Editor's Note: I'm actually proud of our ensemble piece...It went very smoothly considering the week of non-rehearsal, and apparently it was one of the funnier pieces...Uh, huh.]
I'm beginning to question my insecurities in Lang...Perhaps I'm reading far too much into life in general (Which just so happens to be my underlying theme for this week: "So, You Think Your Life Is All BS. Well, Guess What...You're Correct!" Catchy, huh?), which means that I can just calm down, roll with the non-existent punches, and use my cunning and good looks to coast through life upon.
Heh.
My conversation with the P-Dawg this morning followed somewhere along the Dressed To Kill "Cake or Death" scene.
"Lit or Death? Lit or Death?"
"Oh, I'll take Death...I mean, Lit!"
"No, you said Death first!"
"But I meant Lit. Really!"
"Oh, alright. Lit it is...We're gonna run out pretty soon. Didn't realize there'd be such a rush for Lit, did we?"
Ahh...Good old Eddie.

THIS, SIR, MAKES ME FEEL SECURE ABOUT MY EDUCATIONAL FUTURE.

Grr.
It's been a nice week. Non-productive, but inspiring, I suppose...
Accomplished.

MARRIED GERMANS, BILLY RAY CYRUS, AND GARY SINESE. TRUE MEN OF THE CENTURY.

Could the evening have been any more spectacular? I don't think so.
"Married German" was the person lumped into our buffet table at Fake Germany in Epcot. He was scared to death having to sit next to us, worried that it was irrational and against our normal customs, forcing us to eat him in retaliation. Instead, I taught him how to say "variety."
I think his name was Rolf, but I'll never be sure.
Unless he's a terrorist.
Onto Gary Sinese: We decided to finally give into the hype and take a trip onto Mission to Mars. It's was G-Force worthy, indeed, and contained the only man worthy of the title "astronaut."
Obviously, that man is Gary.
And then, Mr. Billy Ray Cyrus, the King of Country. We ended up walking around Epcot somewhere near ten o'clock this evening, and sure enough, Billy Ray Cyrus is singing about his relentlessly achy-breaky-heart. He never stops singing about it, as a matter of fact.
Actually, it was something more demeaning. The Colgate Country Awards or something pathetically corny like that...Anyway, there was Billy, hosting and singing and probably spending way too much time trying to convince the audience that mullets really were cool back in "his day and age."
Pouvre Billy.
I think it's about time for this little Bloggerette to sign herself off and dream of her new heroes...
Hmm. Gary.

WHA'S HAPPENIN'?

BLOGGER - News Archive
I have absolutely no idea what this is for, but I'm just going to Roll With It.
[Editor's Note: I was testing the Blog This! feature, and apparently, I've figured out how to make it work...Neeto.]

THERE IS NO WAY THIS IS HUMOROUS. IN FACT, IT'S DEMEANING AND RUDE TO ALL PERSONS INVOLVED.
Which is why I've decided I love it.

LOOKING FOR WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION?

So is the US, dummy.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY. P-DAWG DEAR, P-DAWG DEAR. HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

Yes. It is to the tune of Frere Jaques. Cry me a river, and read the play.
I still have to make a card, and it will be crappy, but it will still be a birthday card. And that will be good.
Apparently, we're volunteering at the Florida Film Festival this year, whether I like it or not. And I do. But at least I know there would be no option should I protest.
And now, we're looking at Jeff "I Killed Myself" Buckley pictures, which is cool...
I'm needing to do something...I don't know what. But something.

GIVETH DENNIS MINE TRINKET, STRONGBAD...

Videogame is interesting, to say the least.
I'm tired, but completely ready for rehearsal today...It should be no more than mortifying and argumentatious disaster...Fun!
Excuse me for a moment, as I'm being attacked by pink scarf tassels.

SPAM, THE AMAZING MEAT

Ahh...Home.
Or, computer. Whatever works.
I'm exhausted, but I still contain the need to finish my AP Lang. essay, the 8th Grade skit, etc...Not to mention the fact that I've started this ginormous email to Adam, the Canadian English Teacher (A letter which I am completely lost in the midst of writing...), I can't get that stupid 7-4-13 out of my head (Which is not as bad as the fact that I've encoded his name, proving that I'm the only person in the universe willing to waste the energy to do such things...), and other stuff, the likes of which I have no need to tangle with at this point...
Tired.
I think I need to get offline and try to start on some of tomorrow's stuff...Like my P-Dawg essay and whatever else I can stand to tackle...It should be messy. Brains flying all over the room, crap hitting the fan...
I need paper towels. Horray, Bounty Man.

FLAME RETARDANT FISH, FLUES, FLU, AND FLYING...

Ahh, what a gloriously freezing morning...
I have just a few, breif updates to make before the internet as we know it crashes and burns with a firery vengance:
-I saw Gene last night.
-He offered me a job with Q.
I'll get back to this later.

I'M SH-SH-SHAKIN'...IRONICALLY ENOUGH.

I don't know what Rooney has to do with anything, but then again, I'm not a logical person, so nothing really has to have anything to do with anything else, does it?
I know. I confuse myself sometimes.
Ugh. It's been one of those off days...At least I'm now fully aware of why I enjoy school more than home...There was a series of ten minutes in K-Mart this evening when I felt sure I'd drop dead to the floor, surrounded by discount wrapping paper and hairstyling products galore. It was an eerie ten minutes.
Or, if we're in AP Language, it's "erie." Like the lake.
The youth rally was canceled for Saturday, and I thought for sure I was out of a Genescapade...But no, the Mission From Hell ends early on Sunday, and we can see them with Gayle's horde, and I will once again be lovelost and forlorn.
Hooray!
I suppose I'm most excited over The Phantom Of The Opera come Thursday...It means an afternoon of pure musical theatre greatness, P-Dawg, and Elis. I--
Don't know...
I can't think right now: it's a blobbing gelatin of nothingness that I'm incompetent at harnessing, yet dutifully obliged to torment myself with. Thought, that is. My eyelids shut in a combination of things unknown, exhaustion and scorn surely associated, and I just don't know how to cope with it...I'm not depressed, just inconsiderate...I don't deserve all the things I have in my life, I don't deserve the privileges, and the esteem, and the pride, and the incoherent babbling that flutters across my eyelids at one-hundred-and-eighty-six miles per hour...
I need to stop at this point, I think. Too in-depth for tonight...I need to watch some Strong Bad or something mindless like that...

AND I THOUGHT SHE WAS JUST COVERING UP THE GREEN FUR WITH MAKEUP...

You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch...
My grandmother gave me a car last night. A car.
Charlie's car, to be exact...A dead man's car.
But it's still a car.
Now, I have two. I think I'm the only Junior who's turning 17 in a few days and still won't be able to drive her TWO cars.
I like the sound of that...Maybe I can drive one (Illegally.) and rent out the other one to Elis (Illegally.)...It's just a thought.
MWHAHAHA! EVIL LAUGHTER!

"BUT WHY IS MR. DARLING ALSO CAPTAIN HOOK? I JUST DON'T GET THAT PART..."

Thank you, Mr. Intelligent.
The movie last night was good...Really good, actually...I didn't enjoy the setting too much, but that comes from being a twisted, sardonic human being who doesn't enjoy inferior company--I mean--comedy.
Sure.
And now we're off to Grandmother's House. Ha. Sounds like a bundle of fun!
Or not.
I've been out of contact with anyone school related for about three days...It's eating me up...Elis has apparently gone into hiding (With beloved Vice President Dick Cheney, of course...), Anthony is busy being "Tony," Chaz is trying to track down Casey, and Casey is trying not to be found at Jessi's house...
Or, at least, that's what I'm presuming...
I had a long, two hour "think" on the way down here last night...I wasn't thinking of anything substance-wise, just pondering APeX visiting in about two weeks, the fact that I (Thankfully.) haven't seen Derk in at least a month (And the fact that I don't plan on seeing him again for at least that much time...), and wondering if I'm going to spiral into another "Mid-Life Crisis Thingy" (The scientific term.) at 17 next week...
17. The Big One-Seven.
I think I'm ready to move out.

"HARK" MY ACHING SPINAL CHORD SINGS, "AGAIN I MUST SEE THAT DAMN TRILOGY OF RINGS"...

Or simply Hugo Weaving...I could manage that...
I must depart from the computer to play wicked miracles upon the span of mass I call my room, then wrap last-minute gifts, and then...Something...I'll think of something to do, I imagine...
Christmas eve...Oh, how I loathe thee...

IT'S BEEN DAYS, WEEKS, MONTHS, YEARS, AND PERHAPS DECADES SINCE THIS BLOG HAS WRITTEN ABOUT ANYTHING...

Whatever...
Nothing too eventful befell me over the weekend. Sadam Hussain looks like the Iraqi Santa Claus, I got a phone call from Neil Simon inviting me to take over as "Rose," my horoscope may actually be correct for once ("You'll compete with the Devil for your immortal soul in a midnight game of Scrabble, and win handily when he can only think of creepy, depressing Latin words."), and I've completely forgotten everything that happened in the last two weeks...
Jeez. It's good to almost be on Christmas Break.

OH, HOW PRETTY MY PARASOL IS!

I'm honestly worried...Poor Ozzy...

THAT'S ONE SMALL STEP FOR WORTHWHILE THEATER IN NEW YORK, ONE GIANT LEAP FOR NEIL SIMON'S CAREER SUCCESS...

"Mary Tyler Moore, Neil Simon in Tiff Over Play
After reportedly receiving a note from playwright Neil Simon telling her to either [Editor's Note: This one had to sting...Wait for it, wait for it...NOW!] learn her lines "or get out of my play," Mary Tyler Moore has quit Simon's new play, Rose's Dilemma, walking out moments before Wednesday's matinee, published reports said today (Friday). Simon, who in his autobiography complained about the inability of several television and films stars to learn their lines quickly [Editor's Note: Well, duh.] , was reportedly upset that Moore was relying on a wireless headset in which her lines were being fed to her by an assistant. [Editor's Note: What, did her Mrs. Monroe get caught in traffic too? I'd like to see Mary Tyler "I'm 137 Years Old!" Moore fit into that little silver thing...] Mara Buxbaum, her publicist, said in a statement: "Mary has been working tirelessly for months but feels pushed out of this production. This is a very upsetting time for her." Simon had no comment. In 1980, Tony Curtis pulled out of his play I Ought to Be in Pictures, because, according to Simon, the actor was unable to cope with his frequent script alterations during the show's tryouts."

Thank you, Mr. Internet Movie DataBase!
Go Simon, it's your birthday. Go Simon, find a real actress...

TRIED TEACHING POST AND DEREK TO JUGGLE HATS...AND IT DIDN'T WORK.

But at least I have something to write about...
Hmm...We're waiting for Baby With The Bathwater rehersal, waiting for the "Teacher Detention" to end...
And Chris just asked me out...
And my life is over...
And I just impaled myself with a flag.
Fun!

I LOVE TELEMARKETERS. THEY NEVER LIE.

It's like a line from a horrible movie...But there is a way to fight against the tyranny...
With my cocaine addiction, it's the only job I can do, ohhwoo! I said, America, let us call you!

IT'S A SHAME THAT CHRISTIAN MUSIC'S BAD-BOY-WITH-A-SERIOUS-MESSIAH-COMPLEX IS MARRIED...NOT THAT I'M INTERESTED...

After all, who'd want a piece of that? Definately not Kelley.

IF I DIDN'T LOVE "BIGGITY" SO MUCH, DOUGLAS WOULD NOT BE LOVED SO MUCH...

I love that my little B-Rock and Erik have a band...It's sexy, in a Freshman/Sophomore way...
Check them out, even if they only have the demo out up at this point...

IAN HAS A WEBSITE...HORRAH, HORRAH, HOR-FREAKING-RAH.

Not that I officially care too much, but when your "Big Brother" looks cool in his FSU Band Uniform, you want the world to know...
Ehh...Way too much free time on my hands...
[Editor's Note: This link might work better...You just have to navigate to the "Pictures" page...As if anyone really cares...God, I need to stop talking to myself via the Blog.]

THIS BLOG THOUGHT IT COULD RISE ABOVE THOUGHTLESS LUCRETIA MOTT HUMOR...IT WAS WRONG.

November 12, 1880
OBITUARY
Lucretia Mott
By THE NEW YORK TIMES
Lucretia Mott died last evening at her residence, near Philadelphia, in her eighty-eighth year. Mrs. Mott, whose name was probably as widely known as that of any other public woman in this or the preceding generation, was born in the old whaling town of Nantucket on the 3d of January, 1793. Her maiden name was Coffin. When 11 years old, her parents removed to Boston, where she went to school, finishing her education at a young ladies' boarding school in Dutchess County, N.Y., in which, when only 15 years old, she became a teacher. In 1809 she rejoined her parents, who had removed to Philadelphia, and in 1811, two years later, was married to James Mott. She was then in her nineteenth year. Her husband went into partnership with her father, Mr. Coffin, and Mrs. Mott again turned her attention to educational matters. In 1817 she took charge of a school in Philadelphia, and in 1818 began to preach. She made extended pilgrimages through New-England, Pennsylvania, Maryland and parts of Virginia advocating Quaker principles and waging at the same time a vigorous warfare against the evils of intemperance and slavery. In the division of the Society of Friends in 1827 she adhered to the Hicksites. Mrs. Mott took a prominent part in organizing the American Anti-Slavery Society in Philadelphia in 1833, and was a delegate to the famous World's Anti-Slavery Convention in London in 1840, where, in company with other female delegates, she was refused admission on account of her sex. She was also prominent in the original Woman's Rights Convention held at Seneca Falls, N.Y., in 1848, over which her husband, James Mott, presided. During the last 30 years she has been conspicuous in such gatherings and in annual meetings of the Society of Friends. Among her published works are "Sermons to Medical Students" and "A Discourse on Women."
That was simply too humorous to be refused passage into this blog.
Good day.

"IT'S LIKE A GOLD DAY EVERY DAY!"

Kelley is Assistant Director for "Baby With The Bathwater"...
And Walt is annoying. But we'll all get over it.
[Editor's Note: And by "Gold Day," I mean "kissing the Troll's rear-end for a total of 3-6 hours daily."]

I'M IN ST. PETE...AND I AM TYPING...

I'm not insanely fond of funeral masses and weeping relatives, but honestly, the trip hasn't been too much of a drag...
As my good buddy, P-Dawg, would say:
"Kelley, you are such a Stoic!" *Flamboyant hand flip...*
Ehh...
We're getting the last of our things together, and then, we'll be up later on this evening...I wonder how auditions turned out...
Off I go, to text message CMoore...

HELLO, MY NAME IS KELLEY, AND I STOLE A CAT FROM DENNY'S.

Hi, Kelley.
Last night was evening two of FOOTLOOSE, and the gang decided on Denny's for our ritual feast...Of course, I managed to feast long before the herd, seeing as I was blessed with the presence of a parent that can order much faster from a separate table...Heh...They all wanted parents come midnight...
Anyway, there was a kitten of possibly one year of age plaguing our gathering, looking all pitiful and lonely at the window, and the female population of our cast and crew simply had to go see the poor dear! [Editor's Note: Gag me with a spoon.] So, they did. And I ate my food. And I was happy.
We decided to take off a little earlier than the rest, and so as Mary and I strolled outside, myself fixated solely on complaining about the poor kitty-witty and how hungry and sad and lonely it was [Editor's Note: Obviously.] , he ran up and jumped onto my shoulder.
And Mary says, "Let's take him home."
"Huh?"
"I said, let's take him home. He looks like a Charlie."
[Editor's Note: Unbeknownst to anyone besides this blog and her family at the current time, Charlie, this blog's grandfather, passed away yesterday morning. This blog has little emotion or feeling on the subject, and cold hearted as she is, really doesn't care. She can't. She isn't in tears, she's not sad. It's just an emotionless event for her, and that's why no one knows, nor needs to know.]
So we did. We took him home. Or her, as the case may soon be revealed. "IT" has an appointment with a veterinarian around noon-or-later, and that will determine all further gender issues.
To be totally and completely honest, my mom was the one that stole the cat. I was simply the one that picked it up, set it in the back seat of our car, and closed the door...So it wasn't really my fault...
And that is about all exciting news and events of credit worthy of mentioning at this point and time...
If we adopt a chinchilla, this blog will let you know.

"FOOTLOOSE! CUT LOOSE! LINDSEY'S KICKING OFF HER SHOES..."

Last night was eventful. Sort of.
The show went very well, despite the fact that the picture frame fell and cracked, Andrew was dyslexic, Lindsey lost her shoe in the finale (And Kevin Post caught it...), the screen was knocked over, and Beethoven is now decapitated...Again.
A relatively uneventful opening night.
The Mock DUI is this morning, and I feel as though I have already learned the effects of what I would like to call "Drama Under the Influence":
---Carrying large couches from furniture Storage, all the way to the football field.
---Freezing my naked toes off.
---Being described as a "Backelite".
---"Supervising" the movement of two metallic benches...
---...And allowing my sandal to slip off and drench my foot in freezing mud as I'm carrying the third.
---Moving door flats that (Surprisingly enough) have less weight on them than The Moore House.
And...
---Backel forcing Mr. Davis to provide us with steaming Hot Chocolate...
That should prove an interesting battle. I should buy tickets, sell concessions, and possibly rent a video camera so that I can record the event and sell copies of the video for a hefty percentage.
Ahh. On to Circuit City. Or Physics. Either way...

FINALLY, A WORTHWHILE PICTURE UP ON DISCIPLESNOW.COM...

It's Rey!

"I'M JUST A PERSON, AND I HAVE TO EXPRESS MYSELF IN THAT WAY..." SAYS NOTED ROLE MODEL, BRITNEY SPEARS.

And personally, I believe her...
I'm trying to figure out how exactly I feel this week...Not really awake, too wired to sleep, and much, much too sick to my stomach to eat...Which is a good thing...
Gene is in Mexico (Boo.), Derk is probably plotting my destruction at the hands of Jimmy Fallon (Moo.), and Mr. Plyler thinks I've read The Grapes Of Wrath (Woo.)...It's a rather amusing concept, when you get down to it...
I'm still blessed with a large gash in my thumb thanks to my insane efforts at cleaning up the Prop Storage room...
And Footloose is tomorrow...Which means that it's almost December...I'm a bit more than a month away from 17...Odd...And APeX is probably coming in January...Which could not make me happier...
How pathetic. I hope I'm not falling back into that cycle...I don't think I am, though. I'm not feeling too insanely teeny-bopper-ish, and that was a key sign last time...I'm just...revitalized by him and his presence...It feels good to know that he cares about me, and that he's as excited to see me as I am him...
Ugg. I have to stop writing this.

MY OWN LITTLE SCREENPLAY...WITH MEG RYAN AND TOM HANKS...AN UNLIKELY PAIRING, INDEED.

Take a peek at the comedic genius...

HIGH, HO. HIGH, HO. IT'S OFF TO LANG I GO...

I revised my essay, and sold my soul to Satan.
The day is off to a good start.

TROGDOR THE BURNINATOR HAS COME TO WIPE AWAY THE SEMINOLE TOWN CENTER...BUT NOT BEFORE NOON.

Stranded in a mall. Sounds like a typical girl's dream vacation. Not Kelley's. She was relatively upset upon finding that not only was her morning wasted until noon, but no good looking men happened to be setting up shop as she sat in a Lay-z-Boy, dazed and confused, wondering why she'd be condemned to a fate of loafing around in an empty, freezing mall at 11 AM on a Sunday.
And then, Kelley's-Not-So-Emo-Self kicked Emo-Kelley in the ass.
And it was a good day.
I'm actually relatively relieved. I have gravel for the microphones, I have-- really penetratingly green eyes, I'm just realizing...Sorry. Looking in the mirror while I'm typing probably isn't the best idea...What was I saying? Um, something about microphones, therefore leading to the troll, therefore obviously and inevitably leading to a Derk story...
Horrah!
So, I called up Mary while she was in the SMM NCYC meeting, and of course, before I hung up, I yelled, "And punch Fr. Derk for me..."
Ironically enough, Derk was sitting next to her. And he heard me.
He, then proceeding to grab my mother's cell phone, and murmuring "Hello" into the speaker, forced Kelley to lose all recognition of thought, except disgust and utter loathing, and hang up the phone.
And now, Kelley is "ex-communicated."
Ha, ha!
It's been a very nice Sunday, says the Not-So-Emo-Me.

"IT'S THE FIRE OF...WAIT...WHAT'S MY LINE AGAIN?"

I would have been joyful if !HERO had ended up being what I thought it was going to be...But it wasn't. It was by no means a "Rock Opera", but much more of a Audio Adrenaline concert with special guest stars Michael Tait, Rebecca St. James, and Kelley Smith, the sole person in the audience that was disgruntled over the fact that Tait most definately was a rock star, not an actor...
But I must say- If Jesus was that good looking, he would not have been single...
Sleep is so far beyond me, I fear that I will not find rest for at least another day...But that's alright. Tomorrow, I'm planning on having a little Drama III rehersal at the pad, just to go over the ensemble scene that Nick, Elis, Chaz, and myself have to block and- Oh, that's right- LEARN!
I shall sleep in tomorrow, then reherse, then waste my evening at "The Brantley"...It will be alright, I suppose...At least I'll have something entertaining to keep me distracted...No, not Elis, silly blog. I'm talking about the hand-held device that will beep and rumble at random times in the midst of the show...
That is what they mean by active participant, right?
I am currently "not" thinking about Gene (Which could very well mean I "am"...I don't know how those quotation marks negate effectively, so I just decided to put them everywhere!), and I think that's a good thing...I don't know what I'm thinking right now.
Oh, well...Time for Physics!

EXCUSE ME WHILE I BLIND YOU WITH MY RADIOACTIVE BLING-BLING...I MEAN, SHIRT.

The FOOTLOOSE shirts are simply out of control...They're so bright, they glow in the dark. Which for me, is an entirely necessary thing out of a shirt. But others seem to deem it a distraction, or possibly worse, a need to burn me to the ground with flammable chemicals...
In other news, I made it into the APeX chat last night...For two minutes...I said "Hi" to Gene at the exact moment my new computer decided to shut down due to the Breaker Virus that my father had yet to patch up...But at least I said hello...I really hope he saw it...
Mary took me to Thriftko last night, and we shopped the night away...I bought things, she paid for them, and in my opinion, that makes it an overly wonderful relationship...

I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT...

F. Murray Abraham is so much cooler than Tom Hulce...

Hold Me, I'm Scared!

Kelley, how are you not completely freaked out that someone wrote a play about us?! I am terrified! Although, it is kind of cool to be the "Black Widow" . . .
Now, where exactly did you find this play? Are you sure you didn't write it just to make me lose my mind, allowing you to watch and laugh? [Editor's Note: As much as I wish I had made it up, I have to honestly tell you that I Googled your name, and that was what ended up coming up...Eerie? I think so...] I'm going to tell myself you did so I won't wake up screaming tonight. And one more weird coincidence: December 16, the date the play was written, is my dad's birthday. Creepiness . . .

SOMEONE WROTE A PLAY ABOUT ELIS AND MYSELF...A LITTLE ODD? I THINK SO.

I'm scared to death...They made me a dumb waitress...And Elis is this "Black Widow"...It's rather amusing, and eerie at the same time...
But enough about that. The day has been alright. A little stressful, but relatively normal. Sane, if you will. I can't stop thinking about next week, nor can I stop thinking about Thursday...And Michael...Ahh...Sweet, sweet Michael...
I'm actually excited about !HERO now that The Drama III Horror Show is done and over with...It's time to kick back, relax, and learn my NCYC monolouge...
If Maureen even remembers I have one...