"ASK ME ABOUT MY WISH."

I just completed viewing an episode of "Ace of Cakes." Nothing in that sentence is in any way out of the ordinary, yet the content of the episode forced me to a heightened level of reminiscence.

A little girl named Laura was flown to Baltimore in order to meet Chef Duff and his gang of wiley cohorts, and to construct a jungle-esque monstrosity made of fondant and everything yummy, all in the name of the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

She was so incredibly happy. Every second. I remember that.

There appear to be these considerable chunks of lifestyle or situation that I have, rather seamlessly, pushed aside from my consciousness. Not for any deliberate, emotional, or overwhelming reasoning, but merely because they seem to complicate who I am, what I seek, what motivates me.

That boisterous smile shall not soon leave my head.

I MISS SHAWNEE. AND, I AM NOT LYING.

I am finally home, which will, without doubt, drive me up the wall.

Reasoning: I could not ask for much more than what this last week held, and I can't fathom the possibility that it won't happen again for some time. There is, however, the smallest bit of doubt in my mind that the whole thing was merely whimsical, lackluster fantasy; the kind my heart is built on. But I truly was there, earnestly spent my time, and gradually allow myself to fall back into the mudane feeling that is being alone.

I would curse if I felt as though my fingers could type with any sort of productivity. Lazy, lazy fingers have I.

I'll put pictures of the kitten up soon. He's insane. INSANE.

SO, THIS ONE THING HAPPENED.

Only, I cannot speak of it. Later, perhaps. Now, NO.

Lots of emphasis. Must be a good story, huh?

Oh, when I can finally speak freely of this fiasco of faring, it will prove to be quite the tale of wonder and adventure only imaginable in the minds of...well, in my mind, I suppose. Or the minds of unnamed major corporations.

Here's hoping that unnamed and aforementioned major corporations don't ruin my chances of writing, too.

Down with the man, man.

HIS NAME IS MURPHY.

More. Later.

LET'S CALL IT "BUGG'S BISTRO." YUM!

After seeing this published via the Flagler College website, I decided it was worthy of mention. Or at least the parts that reference our new Specialty Food Location title. Jeebus.

Flagler College Student Center nears completion
August 06, 2007

St. Augustine, Fla. -- Flagler College’s new, multimillion-dollar Ringhaver Student Center is almost finished.

Major construction of the 42,000-square-foot building on the corner of Sevilla and King streets has wrapped up. The center will open its doors this month, offering students an Internet café, modern recreation lounge and more.

“Everything about the facility is exciting,” said Daniel Stewart, Flagler’s dean of student services. He listed a host of new features and activities planned for the center, including Pilates, yoga, aerobics and ballroom dancing instruction; billiard, foosball, ping pong and air hockey tables; movie nights in the domed Gamache Theater; and a variety of food options at Bugg’s Bistro.

The building aims to be the epicenter of student activity on the 2,200-student campus. In addition to the dining and lounge areas, it will be home to the college bookstore, multi-purpose rooms, faculty offices and the student and career services offices.

A dedication ceremony for the Ringhaver Student Center is planned for September. More details on that event – along with the completion of the Molly Wiley Art Building rehabilitation – will be provided as they become available.

For more information, visit www.flagler.edu/studentcenter. See pictures of the Ringhaver Student Center getting its finishing touches here:http://www.flaglergargoyle.com/gallery/student_center_completing.

BUGG'S BISTRO.
Yes.

Seeking a logical explanation of some sort, I completed further research and discovered this little tidbit which provides a tiny bit of evidence in the case against tasty names:

Flagler College honors two alumni
Special to The Record
October 6th, 2004

Flagler College honored two alumni with special awards at the Fifth Annual Alumni Awards Dinner earlier this year.

Yes. Boring. I know.
But here's where it starts to get interesting:

Michael "Mike" Bugg, president/broker of Lifestyles Realtors of Jacksonville Beach, was honored with the Flagler College Professional Achievement Award. The award recognizes alumni who have achieved outstanding success in their career field, as well as having demonstrated exceptional leadership and excellent performance in his career.

After graduating from Flagler in 1978, Bugg began a career with MCI where he earned the Presidential Award for Excellence, MCI's top award, 12 years in a row.

That rise to the top at MCI led Bugg to pursue his passion -- real estate sales. He co-founded The Condo Store, an Atlanta-based residential firm specializing in sales and marketing of condominiums. Under Bugg's leadership, the store grew from two agents to more than 150 agents and sold in excess of $850 million in residential sales.

After selling the company to a large national real estate firm, Bugg returned to the First Coast and settled in Jacksonville Beach where he founded Lifestyle Realtors. His firm specializes in town homes, loft and condominium sales.

In 2001 Bugg turned his enthusiasm for entrepreneurship into a very special gift to Flagler College -- the Michael W. Bugg Endowed Scholarship. The scholarship benefits students who demonstrate leadership potential, entrepreneurial skills and a commitment to the College and/or the community.

It comes as no surprise that campus developments would be named after contributors.
Duh.
But with a name like "Bugg," how tasty can your food be? Seriously?

Thank you, Flagler College.

IT WAS A HIPP SUMMER.

I recognize that I have utilized that punny phrase before, but seeing as the whole process has finally come to an end, I thought I'd exploit it just one last time, and light up the page with some of the summer's finest photographic moments.
Enjoy.

GOODNIGHT WISHES.

I hope there is a day coming along in which people will fail to take me for granted.

Not that I'm much to take for granted, I suppose.

I hate everything about this moment.

CHRISTOPHER WALKEN COOKS CHICKEN AND PEARS.

Oh, lordy.
This just completely made my otherwise shoddy existence.

Man Makes Chicken With Pears.

If it weren't for this video, I would be left alone to consider how awkwardly humiliating my emotional life can be.
Instead, all I can think about is how the pear bottoms taste like "cookies."

I want Christopher Walken to make me juicy pear cookies. Right now.

BOOKED, Y'ALL.

PA from August 13th to the 21st.
No complaints.
I'm ready.

Almost.

I'VE SAID THIS A THOUSAND TIMES. OR, MAYBE JUST ONCE.

Every few months, I find myself caught back up into, what I have deemed, a "cycle of caring."
Some might recognize said "cycle" as a decent, humanistic sort of thing, worthy of applause and merit.
I have no other choice but to see it as a pathetic waste of my time.
No. Not my time- my dignity.

I'm so utterly exhausted from waiting around for goodness to prevail, happiness to waft in my direction, or some enchanted fairy-tale glory to envelop my being.
I seek out good things, and drain myself in sharing those feelings of worthiness and compassion with others, yet they continue to be pointless, unrecognized, wholly detrimental to my surprisingly fragile self-esteem, and best of all, unrequited.

I don't know how many times I will have to reiterate to myself via the written word that I have issues with reciprocation. There is a level of charity that has been surpassed, and is now simply an arrogant, advantageous sort of rite, I think. Something that others can chuckle at in its simplicity, but something that draws me deeper and deeper into falling away from interaction with anyone.

On that chipper note, I remain far from depression- it's loneliness.
Plain, simple, and blatant. Loneliness.

AND...CHUCKLE.

I might be in love with someecards.
They're pretty much amazing. That's all I'm saying.




Um, yeah.

A QUICK NOTE:

Mr. "Our Lord And Savior" Jesus H. Christ did not die on the cross so that you could memorialize him with gaudy airbrushing on the back of your Neptune Blue PT Cruiser, license plate [Editor's Note: Vanity Plate removed out of the sheer generosity of my heart, and because the driver would get their nilly rear kicked if someone were to actually post it for other intelligent human beings to see.].

Thank you.

-Kelley L. Smith

AVADA KEDAVRA, BOOK SEVEN.

And, I've finished it.

Still not sure what to think of it, but it's been devoured, in whatever sense exists where one can feverously consume pieces of literature.

So...individual reflection time. Yep.

I'm posting this because I think it is adorable. And by "it is," I mean "we are."


Uh, huh.

OH, YES.

I, like many millions of individuals across the globe, am highly anticipating Friday evening's release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling's final novel in her seven-volume series.

But, in earnest, it is the bookies across the globe that make me smile.
Why, you ask?
Because, at this very moment, international odds for Harry "offing himself" are at 33-1. Thirty-three to one.

That's ridiculous.
And absolutely amazing.

I love gambling.

WALK IT OUT, FOSSE.

This is the most amazing thing in the history of the dance/hip-hop universe.

Don't dispute me.

"I'M OBNOXIOUS AND DISLIKED; DID YOU KNOW THAT?"

Having just concluded an evening of 1776 with my grandmother, I am easily the happiest, most patriotic human being ever.
Not really. But, yes. Obviously.

Dear Gracious Lord on High, do I love that little show, that little piece of historical gluttony that brings my musical soul to a quirky quiver. I could babble for hours over its glory and dominance and simplistic finery and so on and so forth. And IMDB happens to mention some undisclosed project slated for 2009 that bears the same title of my most beloved musical, which could easily throw me into Crazy Hyperactive Medicinal Speech Mode. [Editor's Note: That's right, CHMSM. I don't have any feasible idea how one might pronounce or define that, nor do I give a flying (or grounded) care either way.] Regardless, the mystery that surrounds what I hope could be some perpetuation of greatness sends me into shock and an uncontrolled desire to...

...well, actually, I have no idea what it urges me to do. Buy a premium IMDB account?
No. Absolutely not.

Yeah, I've got nothing.

BYESPACE.

It's finally over- I've removed myself from the world of Tom's MySpace, solely for the fact that I never utilize it, fail to recognize its value, and have no desire for it any longer.

Liberation. This is what I'm talking about, little ones.

ONCE.

Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová made my evening.

Please, please go see this movie. Or buy the soundtrack. Or associate yourself with the film/its musicians in one way or another.

It was brilliant. Incredibly simple, and utterly gripping.

SWEAR JAR.

Ha.
Ha, ha. Ha.
Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha. Ha.


This made me chuckle, if you weren't already made aware of that by the gratuitous "ha"s listed previously.
Try to guess my favorite sequence. It won't be hard, and it involves a term that rhymes with "truce-hag." I'm classy like that.

WORDS.

I am at a loss for-




Well, you know.