THAT'S SOME SWEET VACATION, DUDE.

Hells yeah.
I'm so very in the mood for rest and relaxation; conversely, I want to leap up and run, just for the sheer capacity to do so.
It's almost finished.
This year is so close to completion, I can feel is leaning against me like a bad case of frotteurism. And still, so much is yet to reach completion. I have to send out application letters, endorsements of my personal value, and sealed transcripts.
Capital F-U-N!
My mental capacity is far beyond its normal reaches, and I can feel the weight of dragging lobes, damaged by excessive work in the last six months. Hopefully, these next two weeks will prove successful in grinding all of that toned grey matter into a healthy, Napoleon Dynamite-ish sludge.
Ehh...I'm going to relax for a few minutes. Then, it's off to my lazing about.

HIGHLIGHT REELS FOR DECEMBER 15TH, 2004.

If I have learned anything in the past week, it has been horribly surpassed by these stunning revelations:
-I am surrounded by some of the greatest individuals ever to walk the earth.
-The opposing team is close by.
-Elise can do anything she puts her mind to- like Duke University. GO Blue Devils! (And Elise!)
-Paul Farmer's recommendation letter for me would have to include the statement "I-Robot was a shared experience with Kelley that I will never forget, as we established the correlation between Les Miserables and Will Smith."
-Hanukkah songs are better when sung in rounds.
-A re-write is never a re-write until it is a re-write re-write re-write.
-The only real question is, what is the tragic vision of my existence in relation to my life as a whole?
-Officer Moore is my friend.
-The iPod holds a lot more music than I would have previously assumed. Really.
-Sleep, although hard to get, is a highly underrated thing.
-I'm definitely not a lesbian. Contrary to popular belief, that is.
-Air-conditioner "cold" is absolutely nothing compared to real "cold."
Finally (and of the most dire importance):
-I need a Barry Manilow hoodie for Christmas, Festivus, Kwanzaa, or any other holiday you'd like to throw in. I'm not picky.

RATIONALITY.

Why are hurt, immaturity, and cruelty the only things human beings truly master at?
I don't think I've ever been brought to tears by a rumor, and I'm damned if I start now.
They can say whatever cruel things they want to about me, but why bring them into this? How do the passive survive in this world, constantly trampled and beaten by the incapable hands of ogress and thieves, unaccustomed to civilization and dignity. Compassion is so far from their grasp, it makes me ill.
I may be tough, but I am fair, and hardly inhumane.
You, dearest offenders, fail to rank as "human."
Good evening, dishonest world.

DON KNOTTS MUST BE CRYING.

Dubya, The Movie.
It outlines (with great magnitude and glory):
-Family Values
-The Lost Years
-The War President
-The Hunt For Bin Laden
-The Hunt For WMD
-Tax Relief
-Compassionate Conservatism

A landmark achievement by all means, but a scratch on the fair record of such a glorious comedian.

WEEBLES WOBBLE.

Here I sit, ready to topple, yet horrendously sturdy.
Placid.
Obtrusive.
Hardly exclusive.
Infuriated/Invigorated.
Undesirably situated. How?
Unknown; still incredibly unknown.
Look. A bloody effing pyramid scam entry.
[Editor's Note: I had to add in "effing" to make the whole thing work out. Otherwise, the entry would have been a waste of your time. Obviously, now, it is not.]

EVEN MASTERCARD DOESN'T MAKE ME SMILE AS MUCH AS PREVIOUSLY ASSUMED.

Regardless of my status as a "check card" carrying member of society, I feel far from economically productive.
Actually, "failure as a human being" might more adequately describe my state of mind.
I feel as a gum-spattered shoe must feel. Ignorant. Divergent. Unclean. And most importantly, alone. Hideous, and alone.
Tell me: what provokes these despondent moods in my multi-faceted hemispheres? Is it pain? Fear? A genuine desire to rip apart whatever maladjusted humanity lurks within me?
If only I knew. For then, I could make fun of the problem so as to divert attention from myself onto other human beings in the midst of suffering. Ha. What blissful joy I bring to the world.
But, instead, I allow it to sit there, laughing, lurking, and of course, tormenting, as all vile (and therefore productive) distractions do. It's their job. And who am I to keep them from their work?
That's right. You guessed it- nobody.
Full of mocking and far from the object of idolatry, the life of one so insistent upon strength and self-provoked isolation will remain forever circular in content- impacting, halted, singular, detrimental, and finally, positively meaningless- until it is taken from them, whether willfully or by brutal force.
And that, Cynthia Pitman, is the tragic vision of my existence.

WHAT DOES KELLEY HAVE THAT YOU, POOR SPECIMEN, DO NOT?

An iPod named Bono?
Precisely.
As the Apple God intended, I first downloaded and listened to "Vertigo," slowly making my way through my library of greatness, and finally, the time had reached 1:03 AM.
It was time to sleep.
But not even in sleep did I forget about its sleek outer shell, that bright backlight, and it's glorious game of "musical trivia."
Yes, dear reader, I am content.
And so is Bono.

NO GOOD DEED GOES RE-FURBISHED.

Now, tell me why Stephen Schwartz couldn't write something interesting like that...
It's rather late, as I'm well aware of, and I couldn't care less. Tomorrow should be a mindless, hazy day as far as I'm concerned. And far be it for life to get in my way, lest it shall be trampled under my mighty hoof.
Yes, I said hoof. Laugh. Get over it.
Moving on.
If Cynthia demands yet another essay revision, I shall rip my fingernails out, pleading insanity and that my keyboard is too painful to look at. She'll just demand that I dictate all future papers, but I'll just show her my bloody, stumpy masses deemed "digits" and evoke all kinds of spiteful sympathy. And then, she'll write me up. And I'll complain to Frank, and he'll complain to Deborah, and I couldn't stop name-dropping if I tried.
Sorry.
I must admit, however, I will be giddy as a clam by the end of December. It will be an ultimately useful change to get out of the habit of school and into the habit of "me time," as well as applying to colleges and watching rejection letter after rejection letter pile in.
I'm writing in a manner most crapfully this evening. I can't even find humor in my spitefully disgusting attempts at grammatical wit. Gross. Someone take me out to pasture and shoot, for I've no other purpose on this earth but to drone on, endlessly and unceasingly about positively nothing.
Alright. Three more sentences about Barbara Kingsolver and her decrepit team of Congolese whores--I mean, Southern Baptist missionaries--and I'll move in a bed-ward direction.
Maybe.

IN THE NAME OF...BONO.

Bombarded by Instant Messages From the Realm of College, I sit, paranoid and gasping for breath.
Applications. Oh, spittle; how I hate applications.
Gracious Lord On High, Toss Me A Peanut Brittle, and a Common App.
Oh, Common App. I love you.

VACUOUS, SAYS THE COLLEGE BOARD.

I hope they deem my essay vacuous.
That would make my day.
Take a peek---
Ooh. Better yet, don't. It's pretty crappy in its infant stages, and speaks directly to the idiotic, internet mind within each of us.
Ehh, it's far too late in the evening to give an accurate depiction of my progress on the Essay From Hell.
But I'll tell you one thing- I use the word triumvirate. In context.
Ha!

CASSIUS LOVES YOU.

Okay. So, maybe he doesn't, because I'm Brutus, and I can only speak for myself.
But as I type and re-type and re-type and re-type my AP Literature essay for the Pitman of Death, I must relay the fact that Julius Caesar is my most loathed enemy on top of anything in the universe.
That's right. You heard me, Bill.
But that's okay, because you're dead, Bill. And as far as I'm concerned, that means that you're restricted from writing an equally dreadful sequel.
Or so I'd assume.

REGISTRATION-R-US.

How grammatically satanic...
It's only 9:30, and we're hiding out, waiting for District registration to begin.
FUN.
Chaz and I get to run around like dying animals and post up our troupe cards, and I must say, I could not be more excited.
A Vice President doesn't have much more responsibility than that...
And I'm milking that responsibility for all it's worth, baby.

HOW TO RAISE A CHILD, TAKE TWO.

And, I romp in my thirty-eight seconds of glory...
Romp. Romp. Romp.
Romp. Romp.
Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp.
Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp.

Okay. I'm good now.

THE DRIVE OF SHAME.

Was I upset this afternoon?
Duh.
I was, however, gratified that Backel had the courage to at least justify in person what she wasn't willing to disclose earlier. Not that it didn't pang with hurt to hear, but it made the post-blow a bit cushioned.
I was angry. I became distressed. Not to tears, but close enough to embarrass myself writing about it.
Alright. To tears.
And I'm sitting in the glaring Longwood sunlight, blinded by a combination of my own insecurities and that radiant ball in the sky, when I hear an unassuming chorus float through my stereo system and consequently, my enraged thoughts:

It's disgusting
Their priorities:
How we're entrusting them
With authority.

What kind of disgraceful Vice President am I? Not only will we be adding so many to our ranks this spring, but I can honestly (and boastfully) say that I contributed to that stockpile. I've encouraged that growth, fostered it, picked out its musical events, and given it a preemptive Superior rating.

I welcome my family new members, holding capacities I would love to share in, but would never fully appreciate myself. But she will. And if nothing else, that seems to mean that she deserves it so much more than I ever would.

And I realized, basking in the glow of a far more superior light, that my job is to be the person who lives out the reality of those last two sentences, not with aggressiveness or bitterness, but with the genuine and warm embrace of a "mother hen."
A "beautiful mother hen," mind you.

WOULDN'T IT BE LOVERLY?

I keep running back to pages already turned in my life.
Dare I stare back, longingly, at words already deemed blasphemous? Am I too good for that? Not good enough?
Seriously. Rank me, O Futile Existence. I dare you.
And here I go, droning mindlessly like the rest of them.
There. I said it.
Relationships are stupid. Love is pointless. Investing yourself in another human being is only the square root of evil, if not simply disaster.
People are yucky. Period.

GOBBLE.

Here's to a relatively "festive" Thanksgiving on all ends: plenty of turkey, Kelley's mushroom gravy (which Kelley oh-so-kindly refuses to eat, as she despises gravy), significantly more than a tiny bit of smoked fish, Smith family Irish potato dressing, and best of all, sleeping in random places at random instants throughout the day.
Thank you, chemically-exhausting bird.
And as the week lurches forward like an over-fed in-law, so too comes the busiest day in shopping history, a day when I browse the mall, watching bumbling idiots (parents) tripping over their beloved, whiny, smelly infants, trying desperately to appease them without letting them know exactly what is being bought in their honour. Gone are the days when Tickle-Me-Elmo and Furbies were the rage: what new, destructive, and ever-encompassing fad item will tomorrow bring?
My guess- An eerie combination of Barbie and heroin, in that order.
Alright. The hour approaches at which time I must sleep legitimately and for over five minutes.
And remember:
Custard Creme Pie < Pumpkin Pie. Easily.

SEAN CAMPBELL IS MY DEMIGOD.

What's the rate of natural increase in the Marshall Islands?
3.70%
Yeah, baby.
Oh, as if anyone on the planet besides PRB.ORG gives a flying flip.

"Just looking at national fertility rates. Yep. Ol' fertile, fertile, fertile."-Sean Campbell

Say something, Aly:
I like Jeffrey as a crab. He's one hot sea creature. You know how we crustacians do.

Thanks, Aly.

ROUGH AND TUMBLE EVENING.

Quite possibly, today was an agonizing day.
-I'm fighting with someone I have too much respect to fight with. I don't think they even realize that we're fighting, which just makes matters all the more delicious.
-Seussical. Woot.
-My heart hurts in too many places to count. Breathing is taking the utmost effort.
-I cried in front of someone I'd never dream of showing intimacy towards. (And that, by far, was the most relieving portion of my existence today.)
It doesn't really matter what's going on (as far as specifics will lead), but I will be immensely glad to begin production tomorrow with a bang. I desperately hope that everything will fly according to plan, and I have a sincere confidence in our ensemble at large.
Plus, I'm under contract not to say anything destructive or demeaning.
So, mum.
I need to take twenty minutes and sit down to a logical, rational conversation with "Little Miss Last Night," which will, hopefully, lead not only to a peaceful solution of some sort, but to a raging cry of glee ensuing from my pursed and overly-rouged lips.
One can only hope.

SENIOR LUNCH.

Fourth period at Dellinger's house.
The Birdcage, a la Kelley.
Pizza, a la Pizza Hut.
General mayhem provided by other major sponsors and viewers like you.
Thanks.

DISAPPOINTED, YET TO NO AVAIL.

Please. Fail me as a human being.
Destroy whatever hopes and dreams I've stored within you, the very core of my faith in humanity and/or the population at large, as they amount to very little but my naive opinions. Not that my opinions matter, obviously.
I believe in you, and this is what you hand me?
Kelley stands on the sidelines of life, genuinely cheering for her team to come out victorious; but instead, her standing is deluded, disgraced, and utterly crushed. Arrogance? Is that the form your actions take? Or is it stupidity? Eager longing to belong? I feel that as well, yet somehow manage to contain my insecurities, to find real ways of expressing myself as a human being.
But this? This is what you degrade yourself to? Degrade me to, for I stood behind you and still remain with my palms facing forward, bracing for your eventual and guaranteed fall.
I take so little pity in you now.
It seems the world has left me behind, chasing after brighter and better ideals, and attacking with the same dull points. You do not captivate me any longer. Instead, you stand as a beacon of that which I vow never to set myself along side, that which has become increasingly more pungent with each proverbial whiff.
You have failed me in more ways than you will ever conceive, although your conception at large may prove far more generous than even you could handle.
Enjoy the progression that your life seeks.
Or the lack thereof.
Take great pleasure in that which you will someday become.
Or fail to be.
Invest yourselves even further in the things that elevate you to this higher level of being.
I hope they stand firm to support you; I must refrain from doing so.
From this point forward, you stand on your own.
I've failed you, it seems.