I've been wait-listed for George Washington.

You have no idea how unspeakably happy I am about this.
(I cried, to be perfectly honest.)

I am currently composing the "short statement" they said I could attach.  It's very short, simple, and to-the-point -- about four words.

"Admit me or die."

Not really.  I am going to compose a tale of devotion and emotional rollercoasters, however.  Or something like it.

Now if my blood pressure will only normalise....

WOAH!

WE WROTE THE ENDING FOR OUR (Ben Hunt and I) FIGHT!

Kick.  Ass.

It's so rad.

I'm so excited.

I was up until freakin' two in the morning sewing.

*Mini-Implosion*

The house is empty.... And quiet.... Oh, so blissful.

[EDIT] Okay.... So.... I'm bidding on a pair of boots on eBay (because I love eBay and I need new, non-Pocahontas, non-peasant boots for faire).  They are simultaneously described as "never worn" and "very comfortable."  How, pray tell, can comfort level be determined if they have never been worn?  Just something I found amusing.  Feel free to snicker and say, "lame" at will.  [/EDIT]

I'm about to do the scariest thing in the world....
[i.e. Call GWU and say "Yeah, so um I applied there and I'd really like to know what happened with that so I can figure out whether to resign myself to a life of normalcy or not."  Or something to that effect.]

But why can't I touch the phone??

ARG!

Help....

[2 seconds later] --> AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So I dialled the number I found online for the admissions office.  It rings.  And rings.  And rings some more.  [Hah, try to dissuade me!  I'll show you!  I'll stay on here FOREVER!!  Foreverrrrrrrrrrr.]  Finally, it picks up.  Eureka!  There is a god!!

"Hi, this is Marty Fehver with Combat Emergent Services. You have reached my cell phone --" *CLICK*

*Wahhhhhhh*  I'm afraid.  What the hell is Combat Emergent Services?!  They've probably already traced the call here.  Better lock the doors and get the shotguns out.  [Speaking of shotguns, my mother received mail from the NRA.  Something about a renewal membership, though she claims she's never had one.  Thus, she has rarely been out of my sight lately.  None can be trusted.... *Shifty eyes*  At least she hasn't taken out life insurance on me yet.]

Documents Show Link Between AT&T and Agency in Eavesdropping Case

What's sad is that I'm not surprised this sort of thing happened.

See if you can guess the author.
You'd kind of have to really be into poetry to know it, though.
Oh well.  Give it a shot anyways.
*BANG*

"I went to the woods to live deliberately.
Or, more aptly, the creek,
And I had no idea what drew me down there, but it was not deliberate.
Except I was in a rotten mood, and slipping into past behaviours
Which normal people do not consider healthy.
I had to get out.
The sun was hot, and assaulted my face directly,
And I jokingly cursed the light to myself.
Getting to the actual water required shimmying under a barbed-wire fence,
Which had been there for time immemorial,
Or at least since I was three.
Once on the pocky rock shelves which shored the banks of the stream
I sat on the highest edge I could find,
And extended my feet into the water.
I had not expected such frosty water in the middle of April,
But what could I do? As such,
It became my dance to withstand the icy rush on my toes,
And bit by bit my feet were acclimated.
I bent double, and examined the sediment swirling around my toes.
How long had it taken the dirt to get there? I wondered.
And what mountain was this grain once part of?
I combed my fingers through the forest on the riverbed,
And imagined myself much akin to Godzilla.
Who knew what aquatic Tokyo I was terrorising?
I rolled my corduroys up, and walked, and sank into rolling underwater dunes of
shale
And pebbles
And shells
And found a calm spot
Where I skipped a stone solidly across quivering waters.
I went further downstream, and slipped awkwardly,
Imbalanced in body as apparently in mind.
I found my footing on long, ropy green hairs padding the bottom, but soon abandoned it for unexplored terrain across the stream
Beneath a high mudden wall veined and scaffolded in a million roots.
I bent over and slipped my fingers, godlike, through the water and into an aquatic world far different from my own.
I took a rock – it could have been a life – in my hands, and drew it from its brethren.
Folded it across my fingers.
Then let it slide back into the water.
I took other rocks, and they all fell further downstream,
And I marvelled that the more and more often you let something go,
The farther and farther away it slipped from you each time.
This time I took a fingerful of silt, and exposed it
To the air,
And rubbed it between my fingertips, watched the brown dredge across my palm
In a small, potent smudge,
Then returned my hands to the water and let each tiny grain sweep, fly,
Slide away on the watery breeze like on a wind.
I took another rock.
And threw it.
And watch the ripples of my actions come back to me
As they always do, and always will.
I trudged thoughtfully into the middle of the stream,
Away from the shade and the easy grappling hooks of the roots and the riverwall
Into sunlit waters.
And all at once the sun ran in waving bands
Contrary to the way it should by right in water,
And the world bended, pressed upon me as blood pounded in my ears
And my heart simultaneously ceased pumping
And my eyes were trapped
By the sun
In the water
By the sky falling in a sheet upon me
And pressing me down into the water and the light and bearing me up
And out
And filling me with an oscillating pressure.
My head jerked up, and it was gone,
Over,
Like a snap,
Or someone getting caught,
And there was only me standing knee-deep in a water,
And all was calm.
A singing river.
I breathed the words, tasting them in my mind.
A butterfly appeared, hovered above me in a still
Flight, wondering if maybe it had worked.
And once more I turned upstream and began to walk,
And marvelled at how much difficult something is to return to
Once you’ve walked away from it.
And struck a perfect balance on a teetering rock,
And as I walked home on the painted road
I felt like one newly-placed on earth
And just learning to walk.
No sense was too minute for it to register.
I felt the occasion called for a memento of sorts,
A tribute to this altering experience.
No, they said, your memento is yourself.
And everything was different.
But nothing had changed.
On an ordinary day in April."

Blood drive is today.  I am escaping fourth period to work at it as moral support.

Why is it that every time I give blood, something happens?

Last year: "Here's a vein!"  "If I can see it, I don't want it."  "Um... Okay..."  *Nurse misses vein because she can't see it*  "Hm.  That's not good."  *Wiggles needle and tube around like she's brushing teeth*  *I spasm silently*

This year: *I am draining much too slowly for one nurse's liking (heretoafter referred to as "Evil Nurse").  A noted absence of pain on my part, which I was happy about.*  *She messes with my tubing*  Nice Nurse: "I've already tried all that."  *Evil Nurse moves needle around.  High levels of pain ensue.*  Me, trying to maintain a calm facade: "Yeah, that kind of hurts."  (This is a code term for "Stop doing that now before I beat you with my tubing.")  *Evil Nurse moves needle again.  Pain does not change.*  "Is that better?"  "NO."  *Moves needle again.  Insert a powerful stinging sensation.  Evil Nurse tries to leave.*  "Iiiiit's still hurting."  *Moves needle again.  I seriously contemplate a high level of rudeness by saying "Everything was great before you got here!"  But abstain.*  ....And then I bled through way too many layers of gauze.  The hag.

So that's been my day.  How's yours??

((P.S.  I meant a French-Italian last night.  Drool.  Allison, I'll love you forever.))

Mondays are a depressing concept.

*Subliminal Message* Visit the Tennesssee Renaissance Festival every weekend in May, and Memorial Day!  *End Subliminal Message*

*Subliminal P.S.* And watch the chess match, because it's rad.  *End Subliminal P.S.*

I am pounding my head on the keyboard.  School serves absolutely no purpose for me anymore.  Even with projects and novels and crap, I am still utterly bored by the institution.

Okay.  Time to wrench my mind into an optimistic frame.  Wahoo!!  Excitement.

Why, oh why can't I forget?

Like ripping a Band-Aid off before the scab has formed...

Say prayers and make voodoo dolls.  I'm going to court tomorrow for a certain infamous "California stop," so anything that can be done to prevent my officer from showing up tomorrow would be much appreciated.

I still can't believe he called me rude.  The nerve.  I've read etiquette books since elementary school (yeah, it's weird, but I like it and I was bored, so there); how dare he?  I think that's more offensive than being pulled over.  We'll see if he crosses another Emily Post devotee again!  Hahaaa!!  *Victoire*

Ugh, much errands to be ran, and way too much cash to be burned.  Who knew a single stopsign could make such a wallet-ish dent???

"Love me when I least deserve it, because that's when I really need it."  -- Swedish proverb

Hahahaha, Lexi bought me the coolest thing ever: French underwear, saying "Maintenant ou jamais" (translation: "Now or never").  You know you want it.  Thank you Lexi!  *Snirkle*

Sssssssssssssssunburn!  ....Is getting better.  I can wear shirts with sleeves now!  Yes!!

"Friends multiply our joy and divide our troubles." -- Another Swedish proverb.

Um, okay, quote of the day.  Yeah, you're all going to hell for knowing me.

Lexi: "We get next Friday off."
Me: "Thank you Jesus!  WAIT -- that's Good Friday!!!!!"

So today in history Hitler tried to invade the Soviet Union.

You would think that past precedent would advise him NOT TO DO THAT.

I mean, really.  It never works.  Especially when everyone insists on invading in the winter.  Permafrost, hello.

Idiots.  If it didn't work for Napoleon, why should it work for Hitler?

Remember this, Brian.  Don't invade Russia.  Gently coerce them with nuclear threats.  But don't invade them.

So yeah.  Hope everyone had a fantastic spring break!!

{P.S. I now know how to dance the fox-trot.  It's lame.  Somebody just wanted to dance the waltz pattern during a 4-4 song.}

Still no word from George Washington University.  Who wants to get an apartment in Murfreesboro with me??  *Silence*  ....Don't everybody volunteer at once.

Haha, I'm in a great mood.  We almost died last night, it's negative daylight savings time, and I have a ton of assignments, but today is a good day.  :-)

Yeah.  Just like the subject line says.

I didn't bring sunscreen.  Ohhhhhhh no, looking for that would have made me late, and we were probably going to be in the Hammerbeam structure, anyway, right?

Wrong.
Very, very wrong.

I have melanoma.

Ash is flaking off my shoulders.

Satan is trying to set me up a deal as a furnace in hell, so much heat is radiating from my general back and shoulder region.

But it feels so good to be back in rehearsals.  All is right in the world now.  *Happy*

Even if Krista DID get the "Father Abraham -- had many sons -- and many sons had Faaaaather Abraham" -song stuck in my head.  At least it got the Rent out.  Gah-gah-gah.

Off to ice my back.
Just give me chemo now and get it over with.
At least now I can say, "Oh yes, I'm so hot," and not sound delusional.  Mwahahahahahaha.

Wow.  Sunburn and Sun Drop.  Wow.

I don't need to be out in public in this condition.

....*Sizzle*

WHO: Jump, Jive, and Swing!

WHAT: Swing dancing, with a liiittle bit of salsa and ballroom thrown in for good measure.

WHEN: This SATURDAY {the day after tomorrow}.  The lesson starts at 7:30, goes 'till 8:30.  Then we have generic dancing 'till 11:00!

WHERE: Otter Creek Church, formerly known as Living Word Community Church, formerly known as Brentwood Baptist Church {dang -- it beats Prince/Artist Formerly Known As}!

HOW MUCH: $8, for the live music -- Pete Roze and the Swing Asylum!

WHY: Um, to daaaance?  And have fun?  And meet new people?

I'll see you kids there.  *HintNudge*

Yardwork has created a deep vendetta within me against all plant life.

It started out innocently enough -- weed this patch of dirt by the garage.

No problem, right?  I can weed.  I can yank plants from their life source with ease and aplomb.  Piece o' cake.

One dirt clod and two sticks to the eye, and unseemly amounts of my own blood later: Everything's a weed.

Salads never tasted so good.

Rawwwwwwwr.

In other news, I have finished the Bum Roll.  This lovely little thing helps Elizabethan skirts stick out and transfers the weight of the fabric.

....It looks like a burnt croissant on steroids.  Kid you not.  {{What I get for making it out of black canvas.}}  My God, this thing is HUGE!  Is it supposed to be that big?!  I could serve drinks on it.  There's enough stuffing in this thing to confidently knock someone out {or decorate a haunted house -- we ran out of stuffing, so I resorted to faux-cobweb-in-a-bag.  It was great suddenly coming upon a massive black arachnid when I thought I was still in regular stuffing *insert high-pitched scream here*}.

All in all, a very fulfilling day.  Days without school tend to be.

So I have to write a 250-word essay on "My Most Memorable Volunteer Experience."

Neither I nor my mother can think of anything appropriate.  This is amusing.

-- Florence Renaissance faire doesn't count in her book.
-- Taking over a Girl Scout troop during camp won't work, because mothers called in and complained that I'd given their children diseases by making them sweep out a latrine and wash the walls down with baby wipes.  And let's not even get into my fashioning a whip to keep those children in line.  Or pulling the drill sergeant on them.  "LEFT!  LEFT!  LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT!"  {{They loved it, for future reference.}}
-- -- I guess there's always the Oakland's Day Camp.  Then I can talk about dragging children across busy intersections and scaring them when we went gravestone-rubbing and trying to ditch 'em at the spring.
-- Even at a completely separate camp when we made vegan fudge as a gesture of winter-holiday goodwill, we gave the children the batch we messed up on.
-- My Girl Scout memories don't really involve helping screaming children, anyway.  They involve blenders and daquiri mix and lowering camp bras to half-staff out of respect to Ronald Regan's passing.

End Result: Kelly is not a {do-}good person.

So Abdur Rahman of Afghanistan is facing the death penalty for converting to Christianity.

WHAT THE HELL?!!!

A.) It's his own business.  Not a matter of international chaos.
B.) Why are Muslims getting so up-in-arms?  It's not a stain on THEIR souls, so why do they care?  One man's differing beliefs are not worth rebellion.
C.) It's his own soul/belief.  He can do what he wants with them.  So get over yourselves.  If you think he's not going to have 77 virgins and a margarita in the afterlife, then let him miss out.
D.) Come on.  The death penalty?!  That's a little archaic.  And when I say 'a little,' I mean 'in infinite amounts.'

Government officials are even declining to be identified.  One of the faceless has said, “We know there’s a lot of international concern ... We want to resolve this in a way that accommodates all expectations — international expectations and the expectations of the people.”

So I guess they could always maim him or something.
I jest.

"Poor man.  Poor mankind." -- Gail Hightower, Light in August.

For the full story, go here.

You should see me when the coffee kicks in.  Then I'll be pissed.

* The day of impulse.
* 'Interesting.'
* Making vegan waffles.
* Little old lady from Pasadena.
* Driving past our beloved educational institution.  Heartlessly mocking those trapped within.
*Going to Starbucks.  Seeing Luke Wilson v 2.0.  'Wedding Crashers.'  Making a list of all the places in the world we're going to go.  Take up entire page.
* Walk from the Haynes Drive/Thomson Lane Greenway exit to the Square.  Proceed to stand on/climb on/walk over interesting rock formations.  An island.  A fallen tree.  Fort Redoubt Brennan.  A 'local plant reservation.'  See convicts.  Walk on historic railroad tracks.  Walk on modern railroad tracks, paranoid the entire time.  'Was that a whistle?!'  Walk across a series of four-lane roads.
* 'So we're on a rock/tree/island/fort.  Interesting.'
* Survive our trip to the Square.
* Marni&Liz.
* Outreach Thrift.
* Grand Palace Records.
* A gumball-machine at Grand Palace that dispenses chocolate-covered coffee beans.
* Leslie's Shoppe.
* Anastasia&Sean.
* Realise that walking back to Thomson Lane/Haynes Drive would be painful on a good day.  Call for help.
* Cameron comes to rescue.  ThankyouCameron!  You're our #1 pirate. <3333
* Barbara@Panera.
* {{Megan looks from her apple core to my whole applewithsticker.}}  'I really hope my apple didn't have a sticker on it.'
* 'The Greenway is dangerous.  You should carry mace.'  'You tell us this AFTER we walk all over it?!'
* Macbethtonightohjoy.

Hey, I just want to say a big "thank you" to everyone who has come out to see Macbeth so far.  I really.... It means a lot.  An awful lot.  :) x 32.

Off to do it all over again.... Agh, divas.

Proud new owner of six yards of THIS:

Which in turn shall be manufactured by hand into a four-yard skirt, a multi-layered bodice, and whatever else I decide needs to be made out of this spiffness for Anna Vasa of Sweden.  I went from channelling glaciers to channelling the aurora borealis.  Mostly because we couldn't find the desired glacier-y fabric, but hey, this is going to be even cooler.

Yes, the costume blogs have started.  It's nearing the beginning of April, so you'll get to {{have to}} hear all my trials and tribulations of the needle and thread.  Hey, at least I'm not working with {{as many}} cable ties anymore!  The Mystical Armoured Bodice of Bodily Compression is long since finished, and no longer haunts my dreams at night.  *Self-Satisfied Smirk*