"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.