Deep inside the labyrinth of my secret desires, just past the fork in the aorta, is my small but luxurious desire to be a rocker. To play the electric guitar with an all-girl band named Electric Butterfly. To growl and yowl and dance around like nobody's business. To highlight my hair with streaks of purple and wear thigh-high leather boots underneath vintage formal gowns. To make music videos that have no adherence whatsoever to the lyrics. (Standing on an Irish cliff in an Elizabethan collar while belting out "SELL YOOOOUR SOOOOOUL?" Yes please.) To have a bunch of spiky-haired, black-glasses-clad male groupies following me around every other Tuesday. To have a pink limo with a hot tub in the back. And most importantly, to finally prove once and for all that females can do rock music.

But don't even get me started on the secret desire involving hatboxes and the highway. We'll be here all day.

You know you're losing it when you start talking to your television. "Oh yeah, I'm sure those tough and reusable Dixie plates are completely safe for the environment." "Fonzie, you're a womanizing punk." "Oh boy, Covergirl is easy and breezy." "Carson Daly, you're a corporate tool." And in other fascinating news, Sarah made me get a livejournal. I hate livejournal. Livejournal is full of the inane. I am bitter. But at least I was able to talk it over with my television, who then offered me some home gym equipment at half price.

Now that's what I call a beautiful relationship.

Don't you just love it when you get up early to get to your professor's office hours, with the intention of talking to them about your worries and fears and doctor excuses and general crummy problems with class, and you wait for half an hour, and the professor never shows up to their officially scheduled office hours? Don't you just love that?

Don't you just give a flying monkey butt about Christa's problems?

Love, schmuhve.

But that's only a rhetorical summary, really. In fact -- and don't you dare tell anyone, you virtual-reader you, sitting there with your nose pressed up against the computer screen because you are in dire need of corrective eyewear and you haven't gone outside all day long and your skin is rivaling, well, mine in its unholy and probably lead-based palor -- a part of me does hope there is a nice springy sort of love out there . . . in the great wide somewhere . . . where for once it might be grand to have someone understand. But I'm sure not holding my breath anymore. And that, my pasty friend with the squint, that is why I say "love, schmuhve." And here's sommat for all you spring chickens and you clingy teenies and you ain't love granders and especially you all you need is lovers: you can go stuff your lovey-doveys in a sack!

Methinks that didn't come out quite right.

So much for exclamation points.

Why is there never any satisfactory food in the house when I'm feeling blue? Maybe it's God's idea of telling me not to eat when I'm down. Or maybe when I'm unblue, unsatisfactory food looks satisfactory. Who knows. All I know is that my dinner tonight consists of bubble gum and water. Wee-ooo. Better loosen up that belt.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Christa actually got to sleep at night, and woke up in the morning! And not just any old late time in the morning! Oh no! She woke up at six in the morning! You know, while the birds were chirping and the sun was actually friendly enough to be called Mister Sun! And she actually got up! And took a shower! And left the house early! And got things done! Important things, ardent fans! And she felt rested, and she wasn't nocturnal, and she actually sang an early morning singing song! And the earth said hello!

Is that the seventh rider I see? Well, GOD BLESS 'IM!

Let's get one thing straight. I. Hate. Papers. I hate papers. I hate papers with a passion that burns deep within my soul. Hell must be one big, long, never-ending paper. And hell's paper is probably on fire, too. Hell must be one big, long, never-ending, flaming paper.

It burns. It burns. The horror. The horror.

Nocturnalism is ruining the country. French fries provide funding for terrorist organizations. Caffeine kills baby rabbits. Lava lamps are evil instruments of the government. Video games will come to life, gouge out your eyeballs, and feed them to french-fry eating, soda-drinking, lava-lamp governing, nocturnal rabbit-killing terrorists.

Isn't it nice when exaggeration comes full circle?

46 is new.

There is nothing to say. Isn't that upsetting? There are experiences to be had, things to be done, "thinks" to think, and still there is nothing to say. The web is so very full of nonsaying. When I opened this domain, I wanted to seek out further expression, further simplicity: a format in which words might become amusements, thoughts, or maybe even -- dare my lofty aspirations fall -- art, in and of themselves. And I still want all this for Ambientwhimsy because I believe that a website can seek to rise above the unfavorable ilk of a "personal domain." I want to believe that a personally-owned website can reach out through all this nonspace to say something important about a life and the way that life thinks. But lately I’ve been growing more and more aware that websites can also inflate what is hopelessly trite, attempt to make substance out of what is substanceless, and almost always fall short of what ought to be a greater height. And at this point in my life, I quite honestly despise froth. I despise froth in relationships, in college, in people. I despise it, and I will not lose myself in it. Or so I'd like to say. The other side of this delicate coin, however, balances on taking oneself too seriously . . . So. It is the lady or the tiger, ardent fans, and both of them have contradicting claws.

Fetch me the nail clippers.

Did you know that I once wandered into a Hungarian gay bar by mistake? With equally-mistaken others? In Hungary?

Oh the places we go. Oh the experiences we forget until we drink a phenomenal amount of Sunkist cola.

ambientwhimsy: would you rather be a pillow or an orange?
Kelly: orange
ambientwhimsy: and why is that?
Kelly: i don't want to be a pillow
ambientwhimsy: fair enough.

Not that I believe in reincarnation. It's a nice idea on the surface, of course: start over! Be a cat! Prance around as a spaceperson! Live it up as a well-cared for crystal chandelier! But after life is over, I think I'd really rather be done with it. Life can be beautiful, but it's mostly nasty. Nasty, brutish, and short. Somebody said that once, and they were right. Although they did forget about chocolate. Chocolate is neither nasty, brutish, or short. But I certainly wouldn't want to be reincarnated as chocolate. That would be very short indeed.