MITCH HEDBERG (02/24/1968-03/30/2005)

Rest in freakin' peace, man.

DEFINITE SITE OF THE DAY.

(Someone please take pity on my soul and buy me one of these...)

TAKE ME OUT.

Q: Did Kelley actually take the time to e-mail Hugh Laurie and ask him (most graciously) to attend her Senior Prom? Could anyone be so very senile?
A: Yes. And yes.

But on the bright side, I found a reasonable dress.
("Reasonable" serving the purpose of a more vulgar, deceptive turn of phrase that would lend this blog into wayward, "blog of the streets" sort of diction. I simply refuse to go there at this point in time.)
One thing I will not refuse is our annual Dinner With Don Jones at Florida State Thespian Competition 2005. Why would I? D.J. is a god, and a darn good waiter as well.
Can you tell that I'm ready for a week off? Maybe? Yes?
I certainly hope so; otherwise, I've completely wasted your time.
Ha, ha!

"AND WE SAVE THEIR ARSES."

HUGH UPDATE:
Laurie on Leno = Absofrigginlutely Amazing.

"WITH DUE EXPEDIENCY, PUTTING ON THE REGENCY."

Here's one senior who's making the most of her Spring Break Experience:
Example I- I spent the afternoon with my family.
Example II- I spent the afternoon with my family, in the hospital.
Example III- I spent the afternoon with my family, in the hospital, with doctors looming wearily overhead, questioning the fate of Kelley upon this dear old planet earth.
Lots of fun, I promise. With Go-Karting to follow.
Needless to say, I have a ridiculously high tolerance for needles, testing, observation, etc., so this afternoon bothered me not in the slightest. However, if I had been without those productive mental build-ups, I might be facing utter lunacy. Absolute insanity. And not the good kind.
We'll find out more later, I suppose. But for now, I have little emotion running through my thoughts. At all. Really.
I need some help.

BREATHING TOO DEEPLY, THINKING ALL DAY.

I've already completed a list of four rather obscure endeavors I had hoped to do over my Exhilarating Spring Break.
(Read: I've done four incredibly stupid things.)
Would you like to know of my shortcomings, dear Blog Who Cares Little For My Existence? Here you go:
-I found a date to my Senior prom.
-I changed my appearance in a manner whose productivity has yet to be determined.
-I've fallen in love with an actor.
-I realized that I have no friends left to spend a week with. Fun.
Dear Lord, I wish I was making them up. I wish I had never been fool-hardy enough to fall into that pit, but lo and behold, I did. Whoopee.
Nothing is making sense, but I've been long awaiting the breakdown. Things were becoming far to happy to sustain themselves...I suppose I tricked myself into thinking they might actually care enough to stay that way.
Ha.
My mentality is alleviated in comparison to earlier this morning, but knowing me, that doesn't say much. It's like SAD, except, instead, it's HAD.
And that's why they call me a Titan of Psychology.
(Yes. Because I'm insane.)

CLICK.

Alright, I give in.
After a few weeks of absolutely thoughtless blogging, Spring Break has arrived, and I can once again become desperate and lonely.
Hoorah! Yippie! She has returned!
I've spent a great many days fighting for my sanity, and far fewer to return away from it, making this (ultimately) the greatest struggle in my young existence.
"Sweet," I feel, would be appropriate.
I haven't slept on my own bed for six nights, I can't even step into my room without feeling nauseous. I don't know what it is. I think I've grown up- or in this case, over- without definitely realizing it. I'm scared beyond any recognition, I can't write, my mind feels so ridiculously cluttered that I've lost the ability to shovel through the crap and find my way to the surface.
I'm finished with my typing- it's doing absolutely nothing for me.

ALY SAYS:

sean campbell hit me in the head. his wife's mom is a ninja. we're going to buy jesus candles. don't be jealous! I want to eat lunch with a senator(!)

I've learned that if the Chinese don't eat chicken to the BONE, they get gochoked.

HA, HA!

I took a very long nap.
I just woke up a moment ago, and to my surprise, none of my Advanced Placement Literature work had done itself for me! What great astonishment I was in as "Digging" lay untouched, unwritten, and even more baffling, unwanted by any member of the human race.
[Editor's Note: Boo-freaking-hoo, Seamus Heaney. Let me know when you write something that doesn't sound more Irish than St. Patrick's Day, okay?]
So, I must take it upon myself to work my freaking end off in order to prepare myself intellectually and mentally for the mother of all Comprehensive Tests.
But I want to go back to sleep. Egad, I am still exhausted.
It's too bad I won't be able to focus in AP Economics tomorrow. Poor Coach Caughell! I should apologize to him at this very instant for not paying attention during his class, taking calls, emailing athletic organiz---
Oh. Wait a second. That's not me; that's Caughell.
Oh!

AM I ADDICTED?

Yes.

But can you blame me?
No.

NO, I AM NOT JUST PLAYING AROUND.

"I look preeety sweet, eh Steve?"

I'm also wasting time.

THE BEDBUGS SHALL BITE ONCE AGAIN.

Dare I run the risk of such weakness?
I feel as though I should be ignited with energy, fervent and bouncing off the walls and whatnot. Instead, I sit disheveled and exhausted beyond any inhumane degree.
What shall become of this rugged exterior of mine, fighting against conditions I had no expectation of?
Who knows?
But I'm sleepy, and that's what matters.

PROCRASTINATION .

Can I help it if I've wasted weeks of valuable writing time in order to complete my senior year of high school with passing grades? And now, my scholarship essays are the most due they shall ever be, and here I sit, trying desperately not to think about them.
Smart.
Still on the plate:
"Qualities Of Leadership"
"Statement Of Purpose"
"Give Us Your Money"
I've gotten pretty far on the last one, yet I find myself struggling with the remaining two. Egad.
Alright. I'm going to attempt to focus (once again) on these banes of my existence.
But tomorrow, they will be gone, and I will be able to devote myself to luxur---classwork.
There is truly no rest for the weary. And the procrastinators.

ADMISSIONS ESSAY

Without much trepidation, I consider myself a unique individual: I am outspoken and ambitious, yet the Myers-Briggs definition of an introvert. Passions of my existence include more than a few "normal teenage" idiosyncrasies, including (in no particular order) show tunes, classical literature, grammar, and juggling. Slowly, and without my permission, writing has leapt up and become one of the true joys of living, and I aspire to babble in the traditions of Dave Barry and other tactless specimens at some far away point in time. (In a rather desperate attempt to further my journalistic career over the summer, I applied to a sports-writing institute through The Orlando Sentinel, where I was promptly informed that I was ranked eleventh out of their ten winning finalists, and the only of fifty applicants without "previous athletic experience" beyond 'marathon writing'.)

Much to my own introverted dismay, I have forever felt a calling to leadership, be it within a church, peer, or academic community. My parents, youth ministers with the Catholic Church from before the days of my livelihood, had long ago implanted deep within my mind the seeds of humanitarian productivity, and the innate draw towards service, something which thrives ever more vehemently inside me today. I credit my persistence to those two noble beings, as well as the insight of several extremely motivational and influential advisors. Through their aptitude and guidance, I have great desire to make something out of myself, and more importantly, assist society at large. Exactly how I plan on doing so, I am, honestly, not sure.

But, I think that's where Flagler steps (rather precisely) into the picture.

Theatrically speaking, I have spent years technically entangled, directorially seated, and in a Stanislavski state of mind. I feel a great awareness of myself as a "theatre geek," yet I know the mental and spiritual development my work in the theatre has brought about in my life. To be on the stage is a dream, but overshadowed magnificently by the desire to influence, direct, and guide. I know the opportunity provided through Flagler's "well-rounded" theatrical curriculum is precisely what I need to attain those goals.

I have always been drawn to communities of rich culture, historical significance, and vitality that simply cannot be found in a majority of collegiate settings. For me, the city of St. Augustine and Flagler College offer me a grand combination of all three. Living on the outskirts of Orlando for the past seven years has given me a genuine appreciation (if not toleration) for the excitement of a tourist population and transient lifestyle, and both of those elements have become increasingly attractive to me, promising a college experience that will be familiar, yet new and exciting, as well as educationally enriching. (To this day, my few career goals happen to include guiding a "Ghost Tour" along St. George Street. Immature? Perhaps; but who wouldn't want to gallivant in costume, carrying an enormous lantern?) The vibrancy of St. Augustine is a rarity indeed, and, coupled with the majesty of the Flagler campus and the inviting array of curriculum in theatrical, English, and theological studies, is an educational opportunity one such as I cannot bear to pass up.

I genuinely hope that I shall be given the opportunity to explore, grow, share, and enrich the Flagler College community in the coming years.

"BE COOL, [INSERT EXPLICIT RACIAL SLUR]."

What a waste of seven John Travolta Dollars.
Highlights of the film included Andre's sophisticated performance ("That is not gangsta, Dabu! That is so not gangsta!"), watching Robert Pastorelli's posthumus performance, and sitting in the most utter of all confusions, trying desperately to decipher what this film had to do with anything.
It was a success, by far.

ADVANCED PLACEMENT STATISTICS CAN WAIT.

Afternoons


She sits, rocking,

In the only chair she can call her own.

She stares, silent,

At the white wall. (He doesn't allow color.)

There, on the wall, framed by the whiteness,

Hangs the painting --

The half-hidden profile, the half-clothed torso,

The hand, gripping the sword

That is dripping with blood.

Then she hears it: the familiar creak.

She starts; then she stops rocking.

Suddenly still, she sees the colors --

Colors of rust, of dried blood.

Slowly she starts rocking again.

She wonders what she's waiting for.

-Written by someone I'd expect to leave poetry lying aimlessly online for the world to divulge in.

"I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE," SAID HE.

Of all the gauzed, self-deprecating secrets I hold, there is one that clings most blatantly to the innermost folds of my deepest compassion.
And I truly, genuinely, hate myself for it.
Rarely does it rear its ugly head, but when that time comes, I have little capacity for restraint or even the sheer logistical cognation that runs so steadily in my veins. All reasoning is cut off. Deluded are my sobering understandings, and suddenly, a frightening world that I, myself, have created zooms into focus, crystallized and picturesque and so very, very attractive.
Perhaps it’s that glamour I cling to. Not the versatility or spontaneity of the situation, but those fleeting glimpses of something so imagined, so surreal, so relentless and uninviting. I know I cannot stay in those instances, yet the temptation to do so goes far beyond my knowledge.
[Editor’s Note: This "one" I speak of suddenly illuminates an "other" that forces me into my precarious state of illusion. I used to imagine that their circumstances were far unaligned; they were indifferent towards each other and hardly compatible in their mental appeal. Now, I understand them much differently. Especially at this moment.
In truth, one is far more distant and unattainable a dream (if you can call such realities "dreams"). The other stands in front of me, yet is no more likely a realization than the other. Both free themselves in my thinking far too often, yet this "other" holds nothing close to the illustrious glitter that blocks my gazing thought and sweeping palpitations whenever the first comes into view. ]
These "dreams" are unlike any other I see around me. I have created beings, deities, identities around them, so as to further pursue them in the earthiest of understandings, to make my trivial needs more systematic and far less symbolic. Yet symbols they are: icons; they stand as a mere transport for that which I seek in ridiculous vanity.
Again and again and again without fail, I, myself, rear the head of undignified longing, forcing my way into stalls and mirrors, attaining not the beauty to impress nor the charisma to enthrall; instead, I stand hollow and hallowed, someone else's transport for a deity greater than I. I wish not to be this shrine of someone else's desires! I wish not to be their conduit for sanctity, just as I have unfairly shoved the burden upon them, lacking knowledgeable consent or reciprocity for my deeds.

He looks at me, but not at me.
He looks at her, whoever she is.
I realize that she is all I'll ever be.
So, in utmost retaliation, I look at him.
There we stand, gazing longingly into each other's eyes, never even glimpsing one another.
And, perhaps, that's the safest place for me to be.

CONCERNED FOR THE POPE'S WELL-BEING?

Look no further, my friend.

THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD

(Obviously not by Wallace Stevens...Are you crazy?)

VII
My weary tuft of memory folds back into its place,
Hidden not from the palpitations of beating, flapping, pumping
Shame personified;
Remorseless, his feathers still quake with a knowledge:
The If and When and How that shall never be again, all
Laden with a tinge of the blackbird’s gaze.

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

Bright, sunny, and pollenated.
I may not make it through the morning. And if that is, unfortunately, the case, I've just a few things to say:
A) I have never been cliff diving with Pauly Shore, and for that, I am saddened.
B) I have never kissed a boy, and I am perfectly alright with that. However, come Flagler College Time, I will have to erase that statement as you all laugh gleefully at my disgustingly stagnant coming-of-age rate.
C) Down comforters, no matter how appealing and attractive, will eventually poke you with their feathers from hell. It's just bound to happen. Be prepared.
D) I've run out of tissues. Someone buy me a few more. Boxes, that is.
Okie dokie. I've wasted the internet's time enough for one day. Time to stop before my computer willingly picks itself up and hurls its angry plastic frame in my ill-weathered face.