I'm ready, so don't stop.

First, let me say that I am loving the way that Sony is treating RENT and how they're marketing it and how lovely the film looks. I think they found the hinge on which the title swings--"rent" is not just what is due to lapdog Benny; it's the verb, the breaking down, the tearing apart and the opportunity for rebuilding.

It's a nice metaphor, I guess is what I'm saying.

I should be studying, and everyone's reminding me.

I feel like the shreds of my last life are trying to resurrect themselves and strangle me with their torn and tattered need-of-hem and lack of finish. I say "my last life" because it was recently called to my attention that I am 'obviously' cutting losses and cutting ties. I guess I missed that. I guess I missed a lot. I don't ask for much, and I don't need what I don't ask for, is that so hard to understand? I want an answer, a thought, a grin-- I don't need this pristine perfect ideal that you want to offer me! It's not me, it's not you, it's not what I want! I don't want to be a waste of your time, so don't waste your time on me. Every bit of my life is and has been nothing less than a labor of love. I'll never ask for anything less of you.

Honestly, sometimes I feel like I'm inviting...catastrophe. Pandemonium. Chaos and the whirlwind of youth and irresponsibility. I feel like I'm inviting someone else's dependence, someone else's crutch, someone else's guilt. I involve myself too intimately to get through unscathed, I know this, but the great risk wins the great pay-off, you know? And I'm not looking for a pay-off for me, but if someone else wins out in the end... who does it hurt?

Boys are the root of all evil, however necessary they are. It never fails to amaze me how opposed the extremes can be, the intensity of the crisp fresh and raw juxtaposed with the oozing rotten remains... boiled soybeans in clear plastic and two-day-old bits of ground beef stuck to a Pyrex bowl. Hmm.

I made a grave and tragic mistake this evening.

While procrastinating on my Shakespeare essay, reading, and Trimble (yes, all one class), I took the hint and went back to my own theatre glory days. My "local" theaters were breeding grounds for Helen Hayes awards, and the high school theatre reflected that high standard. It was brilliant, and we had the intelligent fellows to understand and critique our work fairly and competently. Such is not the case anymore.

I went back. Back to the Cappies website. Oh yes, yes, yes, you Northern Virginia children, the Cappies, and all the drama they brought on. There's something physically painful about those websites--and worse to see your own writing butchered and tacked back where some second-rate-writer-hack-turned-English-turned-theatre-teacher saw (ill-)fit, but that's neither here nor there. Regardless I had a point, and it was this: kids don't know how to write. Did they ever know? It's almost enough to make me head back down that education track. Almost.

You know what's lovely? Writing obnoxious posts with specific people in mind-- and laughing at the drama-free-ness. I just may be here for the long haul, I just may be comfortable, I just may be... not settling?

Gyoza turned out better than I hoped; I found out exactly what I need to do to make them perfect. I'll make them over Christmas break for Daddy, and he will marvel at my ingenuity. Hopefully.

Buuuuuut... papers and exams are rolling in this week. Which sucks, but what can you do with that class thing. Granted, all things are made lesser evils by a trip to the Asian food store and chatting with the adorable Chinese woman who runs the place. Makes me miss my grandmother--that woman will be ready to kill me for not coming home by the time I see her in December. I really should call. I'm so the worst at that.

Uhm, what else, what else... Oh. I find myself getting annoyed with people I used to know. Like, seriously, they're pissing me off, and I don't even talk to them anymore. People need to stop that. Like, breathing. They could stop that too. --Is that too mean?

Totally thought of Nick the other day. It made me sad until I realized that I don't have time for people that don't make time for me. But all the same, it was really sad to know that part of my life is sorted out and settled. The pretty part of this, though, is that it's how I gained my Sydni. Ha, and yes, I am a loser. Funny how things turn out.

--And, upbeat again-- a la MichaelChabon.com
The Yiddish Policemen's Union
As of September 17, 2005, 11:31 PM
The latest freak from the shadowy kitchens of the House Of Chabon
will emerge on 11 April 2006, eight days and eighteen years after the
publication of The Mysteries of Pittsburgh. If one had been
informed, then, that an alternate-history, hardboiled-detective love
story would one day follow that dandified mini-epic of gangsters and
post-teen angst, one would not, in the least, have been surprised.

...holy geez, I'm so in love.

For those not in the know, I apologize and would like to inform you that Friday night dinners at Whaley's Mill are officially weekly events. So I think we'll set up a Facebook or MySpace group so that I can send out updates for what meal when or if someone else needs to cook or if we have to cancel for some terrible reason.

--So let's talk about the past and the fact that it's the past and it's in the past for a reason. How 'bout we talk about how some tiny jealousies are so admittedly stupid that it would really be easier for everyone just to avoid them altogether... Boy, sometimes I feel stupid.

Shane has taken to tormenting the cat. Poor Miles. Too much sugar for Shane... only... I swear I haven't seen him eat anything more than gyoza...

Headachy all day, good to know it's gone. Present from An-drew--mwah! And... maybe that's it. I should call my mom.

Holy GOD, I would so kill for a Doubles cheeseburger, no tomato or pickles, side of fries, and sweet tea.

Five Guys, O Former Love, thou hast been replaced. And with no bacon necessary.

This is Just to Say

I have sliced up
the mango
I put in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
hoping
I'd forget
to make you try

Forgive me
it will be delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Yeah, so JamisonParker's playing at the the Social tomorrow night. Yeah. The Social. Which is in Orlando. Tomorrow night. While I'm in Columbia. Which is in South Carolina. After I gave them up for not playing anywhere near me until the end of the calendar year (lying tour schedules). Damn it.

Lazy, lazy day on the longest of weekends. But it's been nice. Oh so very nice.

Wow. Crazy night, fourteenth floor reunion, Steve's birthday, stuffed shells and cake. I'm officially switching my major to PR and planning parties and galas and benefits at the White House for the rest of my life. Or at least as long as I can hide my politics from those Capital Hill conservatives.

--Ha, right. Has kidding ever been more obvious?

But yeah, grand night, hardly the cuddly and fuzzy sweetness that I expected, but really, how real was that musing? Instead it was exactly as I subconsciously preferred because it was so happy and complete. It's so amazing how different things are from this time one year ago and unexpectedly so that is.

"Your lips give you away..."

Ugh, cleaning is actually a happy thing today. Granted, I'd rather not be cleaning up all the BEER cans (Welcome to hosting a party at university?), but somehow it's all I want and need this... morning? Sure, I woke up at noon.

--Delicious torments and just getting married aside, you're frighteningly close to the mind I've always loved.

And as for the rest of you, I direct you to RESPOND to my worried yet hopeful idea. Hey? Please?

I've finally done it. After years of threatening, it's finally happened, and I think I can officially die (hopefully not today, that would be mortifying).

Everything I'm wearing is American Eagle. Everything.

Hooked on Entourage. Wow, Greg, Ashley, Isaac, thanks for making me dependent on the television again.

Timmy and Jimmy Power Hour. Adorable. Saw it for the first time today. I swear, I've been sitting in front of Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network for days. This weekend felt like it was a week long, and I have no idea how. Hilton Head and home and groceries and CP and Entourage and PJ and Greg and Q... Jack's Mannequin coloring it all. How ggggg (thank you Shane)ooooooooooooo (thanks again...) --ANY-how it's been the most incredible week in case you haven't noticed. I still have rhetoric to read for tomorrow's two-thirty, but--I dunno, it's just getting redundant, and it'd be so much sweeter to reminisce over the perfect day that's passed. What's that line, Matthew Theissen? "And it's funny how you find you enjoy your life when you're happy to be alive." "High of 75," kids, good stuff. And didn't I say bring Relient K in a joint effort with Cru' and FCA? Didn't I? DIDN'T I! Ugh. Ash, you and I should stage a massive coup d'etat with Laura; you guys in? I swear, we'd have called a half dozen decent shows in the last several semesters. Damn it.

I swan. Does it get sweeter? I mean, really, can it?

And today was a day just like any other.

Wow, it's been a week? First full week of classes, over and out. Today is Friday, and Jack's Mannequin is home with me. Andrew (McMahon) had his bone marrow transplant Tuesday, so here's hopin' on that. Amazing how everything seems to happen all at once in everyone's lives.

Let's recap, shall we? Last Sunday Ash and I bonded with Greg, our new concerts commissioner. And now I'm desperately in love with him in a very tiny sort of way. But more importantly he's very receptive to what everyone has to say, and that's what we need on concerts these days.

Classes are incredible--I'm overloading, but it couldn't feel less like it. Four of six are English classes, which is divine. Let's see, classes on rhetoric, women writers, the American Renaissance (Nathaniel Hawthorne, I still hate you), and Shakespeare (LA!); a decent class with an adorable professor despite it has nothing to do with my major, but apparently has Justin's girlfriend in it as well; and then a course on Public Policy, which will be intereseting because I'm pretty sure that it's me and the one guy other than Drew who's gotta South Carolina accent and more than two piercings that don't have our own Greek tees. I can't stand the Poli Sci department at this place; it's like you've gotta have Greek letters and a check in the 'Republican' box to belong. Damn it, I'll come to class in my hippie-est skirts and liberal dogma just to piss them off, you just wait.

If you haven't noticed the change in the name attached to this eljay, I think I'll enlighten you. If you look for my name, 'Daniella' you will not find. Instead it will come up with 'the firework days.' And that's my new metaphor. Isn't it pretty? It's appropriate, I'm finding. This week has passed by like nothing, so much of a summer breeze and I'm already missing the ocean. I love the dichotomy of school and life, and then the further split of the boys and the girls--I couldn't love An-drew (and Shaneley!) and Ash-ley anymore than I do. I'm reading nothing, writing less, but I still think Emerson would be proud of me. And if he isn't, I'll make him.

Syddie, you gotta get up here. Life is so honest these days.

"I put on the same clothes I wore yesterday.
When did society decide that we had to change
And wash a tee shirt after every individual use?
If it's not dirty, I'm gonna wear it.
...
I grip the wheel, and all at once I realize:
My life has become a boring pop song
and everyone's singing along."

If you haven't picked up "Everything in Transit" yet, do it. $7.99 at Best Buy until Tuesday. Do it. If you like witty lyrics or piano or Something Corporate or post-adolescent angst or processing lost love or working through that "stuck" feeling--you'll find a place in your heart for its earnestness. I'm so sorry that I didn't get to see them in Orlando.

"I'm ready, so don't stop."

Alright, alright, alright, everyone, round of applause for my lovely Shane, our guest writer for the last entry.

Life here in Columbia is as grand as can be, spending obnoxious amounts with the boys and loving classes and --geez, everything else. CP-ness is on hold for the moment. Pita Pit is as wonderful as I remember it, and Dr. Pepper still kicks Mr. Pibb's welfare-collecting, non-degree-holding ass. Life is good.

Holding out for the first of September and the first home football game. Goooooooooooooo--- Cocks! Fight! Win! KICK ASS! UCF, go figure. And on ESPN. Hmm.

Yeah. So. Lots of reading. And maybe some decent writing too. And An-drew 'cause he can't handle when an eljay entry doesn't mention my undying love for and devotion to him. Well. What can I say.

I'm emo, I cry a lot.

Shane > Dru

Let's eat yogurt!!!!!

Cola? Cola. Hullo, Columbia. How are you this lovely damp eve?

Me? I'm thankful.

Breakin' out the Blue Jay... it's been a great day.

Short recap. Got *a* pair of slippy Converses, not *the* pair, but it'll do until I get used to the idea of coughing up the cash myself. Thanks, Ma, even if you were cracking jokes about my getting kids' sizes all day.

Papasan chair, World Market--remember that, An-drew.

The kid with the cute hair at the gas station kept staring at me. I felt smug because I know something he doesn't know. I have a beautiful boy waiting for me tomorrow afternoon, and I can hardly wait...

I am grimy and anxious and in love with everything around me. I wish I could take Melbourne to Columbia with me. I AM ENTHRALLED.

Laundry, things in the attic, pack up the Baby, and---"I'm on my feet, I'm on the floor, I'm good to go!" I swear, it's like Life just looks up every so often and says, "Daniella, I know you're already happy, I know you're already excited, but I've got something that'll knock your socks off, something that'll make everything even better..."

So yeah. "Rapunzel." There really must be a better word than "amourous" with all its loaded connotation. But seriously!

Cola recap? Ah, too much to say. Warped, lovely, new tanlines! Good choice on apparel--I was...well, cooler than some, anyway. I mean, I wasn't a crazy tackling/being tackled by my dear friends and threatening a fainting spell out of sheer dehydration. But I'm not criticizing; after all, I've fallen in love.

--I pick at everyone else's thoughts and feelings, playing the cynic and the devil's advocate and questioning motives oh-so-critically. Surely someone must not believe me these days. Sometimes I don't believe me, really. And then I listen to all the music I loved in high school and I realize the strange and unexpected congruous and seamless fit. But is it me, or me grown (growing?) up, or me post-thought-it-mighta-been-the-love-of-my-life-wow-that-was-a-quick-turn-around-so-it-must-not've-been? Maybe I shouldn't be airing this so publicly... --Regardless the old thoughts and wishes and daydreams and cliches are out-of-date and inappropriate. Benedick is out, Valentine is in. Less Hal, more Lorenzo. Indiana Jones holds just barely, but only because of his chauvinist streak a mile wide. You know what I find? I don't want to be an equal in the traditional sense of the word, 'I see you eye to eye' and that mess. I want to be utterly adored while utterly adoring. This 'I get fifty, you get fifty' whatnot is for the birds. I'll give you a hundred, and you give me a hundred.

Ahem. I was saying. Warped was lovely, all of An-drew's sweethearts of boys. The rest of the days bumming around Whaley's were idyllic. I think that's one thing I'll always have about this calendar year: the wordless afternoons, Horseshoe or sitting room, glass or bottle of water, and reading something of consequence. I feel like a little girl, like it's deja vu of something that never, ever happened.

And I get it all back in two days. Hell effing yes. This entry hasn't said anything worthwhile, am I the only one to notice that?

--Hmm. I think the shower's too big. And this house is one story, and there's no one to yell at and no cat to make noises at.

Alright, break from the happy-perky can't-wait-for-Cola entries. Let's effing rant.

I'm watching Dateline on NBC. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I should expect to be annoyed and to feel superior when I watch an expose brought on by a complaint out of Texas. No comment. Dateline sends a man in a wheelchair called John Hockenberry. Okay, why the wheelchair, guys? That's manipulative. So they send this guy to interview a number of bewildered Texan housewives about pornographic spam they received in their emailboxes. Halfway through the program, the Dateline narrator changes his story--he stops using such-and-such-stupid-woman-whose-husband-is-probably-visiting-these-sites-and/or-their-affiliates Julie's--no, no, it's no longer her computer, it's her daughter's computer, then it's the computer in her daughter's room. Right, Ma, whose is it, and who's on it. Julie's email. Hmm, so Baby Julie doesn't use that email. Hmm, Mom, seems like someone sounds rather guilty But that's not the point. Somewhat beside the point is the fact that NBC is paying this man and a camera crew to travel North America harassing webmasters, legitimate businessmen who simply have no qualms with taking on adult entertainment sites as client. Moreover this crackerjack team is questioning foreign citizens in their home country with hidden cameras to air the footage on a sensationalist American news boardcast. Spot three things wrong with this situation; you have two seconds. Yeah, maybe it's the raging Liberal in me, but I knew there was a reason I don't trust journalists--freakin' double agents, expounding on the virtues of Amendment One and then championing the petty complaints of people who aren't concerned with protecting themselves from? against? the Internet. Who do you trust when the people you expect to bring about change by numbers... sell out to the right?

Secondly. Miss Teen USA. Miss Teen USA is on NBC. Miss America has been relegated to, what was it? CMT, after being dropped by ABC. But Miss Teen USA, where none of the contestants are even my own age, remains safely on basic cable television. Pedophiles of the nation, rejoice, your Christmas remains unchanged by pageant upheaval. Sorry, Miss America contestants, you're old hags, don't you know.

Also. The U.S. and Great Britain are sending aid to that Russian submarine. No, no, thanks for asking, no one's acknowledging Japan's contribution. Right. Rock on, Anglocentrism!

White News anchors are not allowed to say "Fo shizzle." Yeah, don't ask. I hate Central Florida. And television. But mostly just the news.

Last night was the ecstatic, ovewhelming teary-eyed night. The beginning of the end of the end to a great beginning. And I'm not even there, how sad is that? I'm so thrilled.

Drew, Shane, and Justin are back in Columbia, Drew only temporarily and I still haven't talked to Justin yet. Philip joined them, and a Brandon character, last night, and I hate them both because they're not me. I swear, I was on the phone with Shane last night, and just listening to him talk in the his typical way... I swear, I was practically in tears. I just know I'll cry my little eyes out this weekend. And I'm so excited at the prospect. Just how lovely this morning is. Current theme song: "Where You Are," Marc Broussard.

I hope I get my letter today. I need a fix. --I'm so past hope when the drug metaphor steps in. Sure, sure, I'm a little behind on the times, but...better late than never, even if I don't think I could ever use the word 'never' in such a pleasant circumstance.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"And it's you. You are running though my mind, and it makes me crazy-- cra-cra-crazy..."

Oh, trouble in paradise on the eve of the brilliant and star-spangled end. I get the feeling that this week is going to be horrendously bipolar on every front. Less than a week. I just keep saying it, less than a week.

Drama, drama, drama... Laura and I had a confession night-type. It was cleansing. It's good to have a girl in Carolina. Syddie is so far away most of the time; we've had the most awesome time this summer, especially when Court was down, but it's all so temporary now that we've each got our own lives in such separate places. --And now there is Laura, who has a number of my more candid confessions for the summer. I'm suddenly tired.

It's August. The hard part's over, right?

Why is my favorite song on Jason Mraz's new "Mr. A-Z" the one about a drunken one-night stand? And why the hell is that the happiest-sounding song on the album! And what's with 'I'm licking your postage stamp again'? I don't get it. Postage stamp? Help me out here. It's the "On Love, In Sadness" for the next two years.

A week and a day. La.

An-drew, is that address on your eljay the right one? 'Cause I'll start sending stuff there whenever I can, I'm sure. Ohmigosh, I could honestly faint--I've never fainted in my life! It's dizzying, the hope and excitement (once past the tension and the terror--oooh, yeah, I admit that was bad), the sheer untouchability of everything from this distance in time (so close and yet so far!). Tell me we'll all go to Finlay Park one of those nights. I just want to sit and watch the water do nothing and be paranoid over homeless people while Shane waxes random through his cigarette between Bright Eyes lyrics and Justin scales walls like they're stairs.