Wow, I have not written too long. I was sick for a tragic twenty-four hours and came out okay.
   
   I think.

   I was reintroduced to society again yesterday. Krysty picked Beckie and I up after she got Potatoes, Gina,
Richard, and Candace and we met up with A.J. at the Pittsburgh Mills mall... About fifteen minutes away. Just
like everything else out here in the Boonies.

   How awful is it that I almost wrote "Boobies"?

   Krysty, Beckie, A.J., and I had a long dispute over seeing Shrek 3 or Spiderman 3 while all wishing desperately
for Pirates 3. The movie industry must be in quite the funk right now if they can only produce trilogies
nowadays. Nevertheless, we went for Spiderman, an interesting enough epic about a superhero going "emo" -
with some jazz hands and senseless crotch-jiving deep within New York City thrown in. Like what any other
critic has been saying about this, "It could've been done better."

   However, I had a dream last night that I was Tobey McGuire. Well, for one scene anyway. It started out
being that I was going to some beginner ballerina classes (in the dojo where I realistically go for Taekwondo)
and being taught ballet by none other but Mr. Fantastic himself - 50 Cent. I think I got this from some strange
energy drink commercial I saw on Adult Swim that night about 50 Cent conducting an orchestra. Fucked me up
good, apparently. Anyway, somehow all these actor-types (and I) are trapped and thrown in to a real-life The
Most Dangerous Game sequence. The room we were ushered into reminded me of my late Pap Pap's late trailer
home - the one that burnt down only a few months before he died last month - except that the barrels of
pistols and rifles were poking through the walls at the lot of us. I ran into the room and someone called out at
me by a different name that wasn't recognizable but it was me anyway (don't you love how dreams can do
that?). I ducked just in time. I don't want to know what it's like to be shot; not even in a dream. Then our
captors had us do this strange relay game. The kind where if you ran too slow you'd die. But before that I think
I had sex with some scruffy, attractive twenty-something year old, so it's okay if I do die. I'm happy. Then here
enters me as Tobey McGuire, dressed as Emo Peter Parker. I'm behind a Daphne and I know there's a little boy
named Scrappy that's crouching behind me on a grassy knoll, as we're preparing ourselves to run the fastest
we ever have in our starry, predestined lives. My turn is after a dark-haired woman named Sarah (in the dream
I knew she's the character in a movie, but I don't know if that's true or not; I think it is but I can't place it) and I
almost miss my chance because I wasn't paying attention (WHY?) and then I run run run. But I'm too slow, the
head honcho says, but he's going to spare my life. I'm sprawled out on the ground in my girl pants and
dramatic hair cut and the man is offering me a blueberry-cheesecake flavored muffin saying, "I know you want
this nice, fluffy muffin..." My actual mind is telling me that Mike (Krysty's mom's boyfriend) told me this before
but then again I'm thinking, "Uh... No? No, I don't think so?" Then cut to the group of us wandering around for
an escape in a hilly region, but knowing that we're fenced in.

   I don't even know how to interpret all that. I checked out this one dream-interpretation website and it told
me that because I was a wannabe ballerina, I'm fragile. ... I never even thought that. Not even unconsciously,
I'm sure. I think the muffins told me that I wanted to be beautiful. Muffins would do no such thing.

   I keep hoping that one of my wacked out dreams will actually give me some good advice some day. Or at
least give me a good idea for a novel. Because I desperately want to write one. I tried once, got as far as
forty-one pages and then life became hectic once more. Y'see, I was trying to create my own NaNoWriMo.Org
time... In theory this is a splendid idea on how to spend a month, but in my life this just won't cooperate with
my constantly exploding problems.

   Not that I will complain about them any more than I have to on here.

   However, I will grant one teensy one. (I don't believe that this is a huge problem, so please don't view me as
some whiny, scantily-clad teeny bopper. Please. I beg ya.) I have a itsy-bitsy crush on a guy seven years my
senior. Y'see, I would be thoroughly disgusted with myself if this had been last year's headline error, but now
since I know I'll be eighteen in less than a year, I don't give two shits to the wind, I suppose. Well, no... That's
not true. I do care about it, don't I? Since I'm complaining about it? Well, I guess what I'm really thinking is that
I know I should be concerned, but I guess on the outside I don't and it sure doesn't appear that way. Unless
it's in writing. Like it is now. Would it be wise to delete all that I just said? But that wouldn't be very interesting
to you, would it?

   I almost bought a $108.76 camcorder off Amazon.com today because I'm desperate to start up a video blog
(or vlog, for those of you who are not computer-illiterate, like I am). I've finally gotten myself to screw around
with the Windows Movie Maker and I've come up with this. And managed to make myself tear up in the
process! Enjoy and cry your heart out, Spielsberg.

   I'm trying anyway.

   The song is (of course) done by They Might Be Giants and is called "At the End of the Tour". I thought it was
particularly heart-wrenching and deemed it my own Graduation song. Go me?

   Next time maybe I'll do something really fantastic, but in the mean time would you leave me a comment? Or
five.

   Henry.