THE NATURE OF STUBBORN.

I am, by nature, a belligerent individual.
"Duh," say the all the citizens of this vast universe.
If, as in some cases, it is absolutely necessary or more productive to look past this trait, I do so.
I cannot understand individuals who find themselves incapable of stepping back when a situation has reached a peak of heightened disorder in which the climax of the scenario threatens to explode at sub-normal degrees.
Confrontation is truly my strongest element.
How delightful life will be when I've no one to reside with but myself and maybe some other subordinate companion. (Not that they'll think they're subordinate, but we all know who will wear the figurative pants in my relationships.)
I need to relax. Meditate. Gather my center of energy into one gigantic, flaming ball of positive-yet-radioactive power.
Ahh. Radioactive argumentation- It's a dream, but a nice dream.
Perhaps it would be better to strive against procreation on my part. I'm pretty twisted.

IMPENETRABLY EXHAUSTED? THIS BLOG THINKS SO.

I can't even bother typing.
So exhausted.
The end.
Goodnight.

RASKOLNIKOV, YOU LUNATIC.

I actually miss reading Crime And Punishment.
Q: How disgustingly pathetic have I become?
A: Relatively pathetic, still working on disgusting.
I have this desperate desire for something uncomfortable and unpredicted to pop up into my life. Immediately. I need drastic change- it's the only thing that will wake me up, I fear. And I'm unsure of precisely what I'm striving for.
That's the petrifying part.
I have not the willpower to continue. My head aches beyond all belief, and I feel I may not be able to pull myself out of bed tomorrow. Time to rest.
Sweet dreams, Svid.

WE'RE WHOS, HERE. WE'RE ALL WHOS HERE: SMALLER THAN THE EYE CAN SEE.

You best be believing.
The consistent lack of Seussical cast rehearsals is starting to drain upon my mental facilities: we have nine weeks before the show, and we've yet to do anything.
I just want my last show to be amazing. Phenomenal. Mind-boggling.
Or I'm going to hurt someone. Really, really badly.
I would feel more articulate this evening if it weren't for the fact that I've been standing over my scanner, NOT illegally coping things which are illegal to copy.
All that nothing takes a lot out of you. As rehearsal has taught us.
Explanation:
Mentally, I don't know where I, or the universe at large, stand. I feel neither distraught or disheveled, yet highly aware of my own mentality. I know exactly the things I'm thinking of, and dare not take the time to translate scrolling thought into legitimate revelation. Writing would take much longer, therefore interrupting my sleeping pattern, and ruining whatever remains of my solitary life.
And you wouldn't want to be held responsible for that, would you?
Egh. I have never been subject to aching such as this. Am I aware of what aches? Of course not.
Breathe. Out. In. Etcetera.

I WANNA BE SEDATED.

Poor Johnny.
I have to say that the tiny, little punk-rock heart that thrives within me is breaking: He was a legend of ungodly proportions, and now he's a dead rocker of not-so-ungodly proportions.
I suppose it all evens out in the end.

OUT TONIGHT.

It's time to get out of the house in a most literal sense.
I need to go relax, laugh, become aesthetically pleasing, and take part in numerous exploits such as these.
Where to? I'm not sure.
And I've no one to go with. Boo-freaking-hoo.
Maybe I'll update in a realistic fashion later. I'm far too energized to waste time blabbing incessantly.
Tomorrow I shall blab. Perhaps.

MEOW.

I am presumably lacking in the power department. However, I've yet to find out, as I'm not in Orlando.
Oh well.
We're leaving (momentarily) for the east coast, at which point I can perform a full damage assessment and/or Mission Impossible-esque surveillance over the premises.
I've been in Hicksville for far too long. Save me.
We're tracking down cats- that's how intriguing these last few days have been.
I need a mall. And a food court. And a gay man.
Because heterosexuality is cool, but far too boring.

THE (PRESUMED) LATEST REPORTS FROM THE ORLANDO SLANTINEL.

UPDATE: 4:12 p.m.:
Shelter at Lyman High School is running low on food. Sunday afternoon, officials said they thought they had enough to last through lunch Monday. But after that....
The dinner plan for Sunday: Shelter residents who pick up a sandwich must have their hand stamped to guard against anyone helping themselves to seconds.
The shelter lost water at noon, and toilets wouldn't flush. But it was restored by 3:30 p.m.
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UPDATE: 3:43 p.m.: The decision on whether Seminole County schools will hold class on Tuesday will come after offficials can inspect the campuses on Monday. Some of the schools, however, may still be acting as shelters for evacuees.
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I'VE ALREADY SURPASSED AN ENTIRE DAVE BARRY CALENDAR.

Just under 365 posts, and yet, far more humorous.
How do I do it?
I'm humble.
As is this hurricane that seeks to belittle my existence by tracking me across the state. Thursday, it's heading for Orlando: we pile into the car with four cats and a hamster. Now, it's heading for St. Pete: we're staying roughly twelve feet below sea level.
Nice.
I've had it with Mother-effing Nature.
At this point, I feel cut off from humanity in general, which is an okay thing. I miss civilization, namely that which fails to include my parents, but I'll tolerate one more day. Any longer, and I fear desperately for the safety of those around me, as they will most surely die.
How is it already September? I feel as though so much of this year has (sue me) floated by, and I've just been a carefree onlooker, laughing as innertubes and small children are carried off by torrential gusts of wind.
That's not too bad of an image, actually.
I'm hoping not to lose power for too long, if for any time at all. It all depends on whether or not the Lord God Himself wills that my education and "reading time" is worth diverting an entire tropical system for, despite His constant lack of interest in my petty hopes and dreams.
Rather strong-headed art Thou, O Lord?
I think so-o.

TELL ME MORE, TELL ME MORE.

1. Talked to the Bishop yesterday. He said, "hey, I remember you, but I have no idea who you are." That was basically the extent of our conversation.
2. Bought forty dollars worth of used scripts and librettos this evening. Six-piece Christopher Durang collection was the top seller at $2.00; I should have put up more of a fight.
3. Covered my room in blankets, comforters, towels, and anything else that was willing to spread over tangible surfaces, namely, every square inch of my room.
4. Drove down to St. Petersburg. Which should go before #2, as should #3. Who cares?
5. Watched two people struggle with the pronunciation of "Antigone." I didn't care to help.
6. Sat on the beach, wind passing across my face, thinking desperately about life in general. Lack of revelation to follow.
7. Ate my share of Pistachio Pistachio ice cream, which is, indeed, as disgusting as it sounds.
8. Found a Bill Clinton doll that was slumped over the edge of a countertop. Obviously from a heart attack.
9. Whipped out my "Tipper Rocks!" drum and hit it for desired effect.
10. Typed up a sorry excuse for an entry to provide insight into the going-ons of life at the moment. Really crappy. Soon to be deleted.

WHAT I WAS ACTUALLY WRITING IN AP LITERATURE.

A list. Of depressing things. Intriguing things.
Adjectives.
BROKEN.
STRUNG.
FRACTURED.
ILL.
DISHEVELED.
UNSURE.
INTENSE.
RELENTLESS.
PLAGUED.
LETHARGIC.
NOSTALGIC.
LITERAL.
INDISPOSED.
FRANTIC.
ILLITERATE.
COMPOUNDED.
OBSERVANT.
ANXIOUS.
UNINHIBITED.
PROLIFIC.
DECEITFUL.

THINKING OF A PERSON TOO TINY TO SEE.

Seussical on the brain.
Can you blame me?
I'm pulling for Mrs. Mayor, and the consensus is that I was cast as such, but I hope not to jeopardize my karma and delete this post in a ravenous, murderous fury tomorrow morning.
Hopefully, that won't be the case.
In whatever situation formulates tomorrow, I hope to be surprised. Casting the musical was certainly a challenge, and I could hardly say that I was fair, or bestowed upon my list the time I would actually invest when faced with the legitimate situation. I know I would have cast differently if I had the evening to brood over such things.
But I don't have to, do I?
I don't know what else to ramble about. I'm not going to waste my own time trying to decide.
Night.

DETAILS, DETAILS.

Ehh.
Completely exhausted. Not just tired. Exhausted. I didn't know what the word meant until this year.
And why, do you ask?
Because.
What a difference I've seen within me this year. I don't think anyone else has noticed, or truly needs to, but I feel like an entirely separate being than that which I was last year. It's this odd, uncalculating existence that I'm not sure I'm entirely capable of handling.
Hmm.
Brevity has never been one of my strengths. I can be concise, yes, but hardly do I reach a point without numerous explanation and general rambling, as my style dictates. Yet, I feel like few words are required to convey this new status I've attained. I'm not sure there are even words that satisfy that which I'm feeling. And that's perfectly fine, as I'm in no rush to explain myself to anyone except myself.
God, how I long to be a quick thinker.
I can't imagine how to digress from what I've thought about in the past weeks. It's been one encompassing emotion after another, yet bountiful with instances hardly worth recounting. I know of a few things I wish I could speak about, I wish I could dream about, but they become so minor in comparison to the vitality that surrounds me.
I am a free floating form, independent of my own reality, and banished from the innerworkings of my own mind. Functionality appears hardly relevant. Nor does emotion. I sit above myself, below myself, in and out and wrapped around myself, camera fixed on the flicker of my eyelash and the wisp of hair that steals away.
I am the insignificant details that have finally begun to add up.

"DO YOU THINK ME HANDSOME?" SAID ROCHESTER. OR DERK.

Egad and zooks, in the same incoherent sentence.
Not that I care, but...
I've hardly found time to loiter online in the previous weeks, what with a hurricane and destruction and death and Seussical and so on.
Seussical. Good God.
I dare not dwell on such a subject at the moment. For the time being, I'm thoroughly engrossed with Urinetown, as I can actually tolerate the music. And, I know I won't have to perform it come November.
Ahh. Now, that's what I call a good show. One you never have to do. Or audition for.
[Editor's Note: Wow. Lots of emphasis in this post. Seems as though someone is trying to make up for a lack of real emotion and sarcasm in her life through pointless HTML.]
Nonetheless, I straggle along, unsure of where I'm going of course. I have little energy, and far less stamina, to compete in the rat race of life. And yet, I sit here, fried to the bone with something, anything I can get my hands onto.
And rambling. Rambling seems to help.
I assumed that by sitting here and pouring out my relatively censored heart to you that I would regain any missing strength and integrity, pick myself up, and march boldly ahead to new horizons, as the original cast of Star Trek would do.
Am I yet to accomplish such a brazen goal? Yes.
Am I completely and utterly hopeless? Not yet.
Am I getting fearfully close? Good God, yes.
Ahh. Those are the words of encouragement I like to hear!

OH, THE THINKS YOU CAN THINK. UNLESS YOU'RE A MORON.

Here, sitting, with Chaz and Elise, skipping lunch.
Nice.
Bell rung.
Bye.

THERE ONCE WAS AN EMO GIRL NAMED KELLEY L. SMITH.

Don't waste your time listening. It will just make you feel better about yourself.

MY KINGDOM FOR A FLASHLIGHT.

Powerless for the last three days, I finally greet you through the magic of laptop via some random cyber cafe' in St. Petersburg.
No, silly! Charley didn't pick me up and fly me westward; he just ruined my no-school fun with a lack of electricity.
Much less exciting, I assure you.
On top of feeling like Arkin Sung Wan ("I'm a refugee! I'm a refugee! Help me! I'm going somewhere because I think it's cool but I really have no idea where I'm going!"), I'm living life in the old school, "mooch off of your parents as you proclaim to be brutally and emotionally damaged after a storm of such ravaging effects," way.
And so far, it's working. Chuckle.
I'm even pulling out my HTML prowess in the midst of this crisis; no buttons to push, no simple "click," just <. And then something. And then >. Viola. Emphasis.
But we have accomplished some interesting feats in the last few powerless days: For instance, we saved a squirrel, and then sent him to a rescue clinic.
We did...some other stuff, too. I just don't remember what they were...right now...
Yeah.
Well, I better keep moving. My time is far from extended, as is indicated by the hordes of angry coffee drinkers behind me. I must dash.
If dash is an adequate word for being chased by angry mobs.

HURRICANE CHARLEY, I LOVE YOU.

Q: What is better than a hurricane day off of school?
A: A hurricane day on a Friday.
I'm beyond ready for this surprise three-day weekend. Here is my general (and yet, well thought-out, given my two-hour notice) plan for tomorrow: We'll traverse down to random kite shops, buy surf boards, and take full advantage of ravaging winds.
We should put a spoiler on my car.
For safety purposes, of course.
Beyond my own personal freedom, I'm glad to see tomorrow fall by the wayside due to the fact that the Tenacious Three (Plyler, Pitman, and their newest edition, Backel) have spent the last two weeks of school blabbering throughout lunch about their combined students, namely myself and E-Dawg.
Scary? Yes. Very, very scary.
I just entreat the gods to let me take a nice, long, sixteen hour rest this evening, so as to eliminate all lack of rest. After all, I care very little about doing school work or "participating," but goodness me: aren't those boys good looking.
That's right. I only go to school to look at guys. And if I was sleep deprived, it would make it much more difficult to accomplish those true goals in life.
Namely, molesting Frank. But first, I must become a cheerleader.
I just need to set my priorities.

SO, THIS IS WHAT THE PILGRIMS FELT LIKE.

Have you ever had one of those days where the word "hell" simply does not promote adequate negative sentiment?
Really?! Me too.
I'm starting to see the signs of my mother's resentment at my leaving for college next year. She doesn't want too see me go, and I can understand that.
It's me. Come on. Who would want to see me go?
Shut up.
Scenario: I'm trying to go to Peter & Paul's tonight for a "mass other than that which I have been resigned to for the past seven years." Which seemed, to me, a logical request. Religious freedom, right?
I'm tired of going to mass with my parents. I lack any emotional input when it comes to sharing something so personal with them: it's not a situation I want to be in any longer than absolutely necessary. There's nothing wrong with them (Ha!), but I get much more out of my religion when they're not around.
What Actually Happened: I end up at Margaret Mary with the family, angsty and tired over not being able to relax in a setting without them. I was mean, audacious, and generally teen-aged in demeanor. It was not the situation I wanted to be in. At all.
They need to realize that as sad as it may be that this is my last year under their roof, it is MY last year to experience the things at home that I truly want to experience. That entails moving apart from them in some situations and finding my own footing. If I stay heavily under their statute, I will have far less preparation than I need for the coming years, and essentially, my life away from home.
They need to let go. Or at least loosen up.

OH, I WISH YOU COULD MEET MY BOYFRIEND; MY BOYFRIEND WHO LIVES IN CANADA.

Dear Kelley with an E,
Yes, you are being quite difficult. Retaining that e like some kind of residual tail. But it may be a good thing. If you are ever in need of an extra E, you have it right there. You don't need to go looking for it. What you could use it for, is quite another matter. You could throw it at people. But that would require writing it down on a piece of paper and hoping the person has some sort of rare disease where the slightest touch is very painful.
I mentioned the movie, because you had mentioned that you were working on a movie. Or at least that's what the Giraffe said. Stupid Giraffe. He's a sly one, standing there, nibbling on the acacia leaves, wiping away the fire ants with his tongue. I myself, do enjoy a good danish. So I think that you have problems intimidating me away from the danish. Unless of course, you are 16 foot tall muscle bound Amazon with steely Jiu-jitsu skills. Of course, you could be two feet tall with no ability to move or injure anyone in any way and I'd still be intimidated.
I do enjoy a good book, but I haven't read one in about a year. Just because finding English reading material is pretty difficult here. I like kind of heavy books, books on spirituality, or interesting ideas. How about you?
I must go. I have a giraffe to attend to.