You might have noticed that my comments section is no longer a festering eyesore. Sorry, but I’ve always hated the comments template assigned to me by Diaryland. The colors didn’t work for me, and one of my blind, neurotic prejudices is that the Times New Roman font makes me sad, like, as a concept. Yes, I’ve gone and conceptualized Times New Roman. Why does anyone like me?

The new look is thanks to the inordinately talented Ms. Schmutzie, who also designed this template. Every time I see one of Schmutzie’s designs, I’m impressed by her grace in combining html prowess and artistic ability with the writer’s own personality.

All of her templates have an undeniable Schmutzie stamp, but they’re each unique, and appropriate to the person for whom they are designed. I think she could be making a shitload of money doing this layout stuff, but she does it for the sake of fun and generosity, and I simply can’t pimp her enough. Go read her (she’s a remarkable writer, as well), and tell her she rocks. I’ve met her, and can vouch for as much.

However, seeing how my comments section has been overhauled, I had to do a little bit of searching to find comments from past entries. This is why I haven’t answered your questions yet. Well, that, and I just haven’t felt like writing for the past few days.

But, today’s the day! I honestly don’t know how many I’ll answer, because some of them are worthy of really long replies. I just felt like updating. I guess I’ll keep writing until it seems like I’ve lost everyone, and I’ll carry on another day. Okay?

SECOND:

The cats are all doing well, and thanks for your advice. Shortly after I wrote my last entry, all of them simmered down, and began eating at appropriate times and shitting in appropriate places. My friend, the guardian of the Stinky and Snickers (the rescued cats), took Stinky and Snickers away with her this morning.

My Ziggy became fascinated with the other two cats, especially Stinky, but his interaction with them mainly just served to show how much of a wuss he is. He’d avoid Snickers, but he tentatively followed Stinky like a little brother, only to run the hell away when Stinky paid him any attention. Ziggy was having fun, but he seems happy to have the place to himself again.

Okay, enough catch-up. No one reads this administrative shit, anyways. I’m not wearing any pants right now. I’ve signed on with a lucrative producer of adult films. I worship the dark lord. HELP! FIRE! RAPE! RAPE-FIRE!

Attention? Gotcha.

Now for your questions, answered in the order in which they were asked …

Q: “You have a Big Red Button which you can push and make one sweeping global change. What would you do with it?” (Brin-Marie)

A: Brin, maybe you were expecting an answer in terms ecological or political actions, but nope. This is going to make me sound like a big, juicy, hippie, but I swear, if I could make “one sweeping global change,” I would press that button and make everyone instantly self-aware, with high, but not deluded, self-esteem.

I’m not saying I would want everyone to be a narcissistic egomaniac. No, no, no. Vanity doesn’t come into play, here. I’d just want everyone to see him/herself for whom he/she is, humanized, blessings, follies, and all.
I could go on about this, but l won’t. Let me just give you a couple of (albeit extreme) examples of how low self-esteem has led to destruction:

Napoleon has a complex named after him.

It can be argued that Hitler had a Napoleon complex.

Like I said, those are extreme examples, and I know I’m simplifying a helluvalot. (“Helluvalot!” That’s where I’d rule if I, Luva, were Guinevere of the world!) Of course, history is history, and no history is without its period of destruction.

However, I guess life wouldn’t be as interesting as it is if people were so damned happy that no one ever fucked up, but I do think that if everyone was happy with him/herself, communication would be a lot better, and UN meetings would at least be more efficient.

Short answer, Brin: Although I like my theory, I dunno.

Q: If you could have a talking robot, one that looked and felt completely lifelike and could be made to look like any living creature, and this robot would do anything you wanted 24 hours a day, would you have it made to look like a human or an animal? And what human or animal would it look like? And yes, if you have it made to look like a walrus, it would still talk, although you might have to have a swimming pool for it to live in. You're going to have to think about these things, Luva. (Bones)

Aw, shit. “Any living creature?” If you had allowed me to play with the whole mythical creature realm, I’d’ve been set with a robotic angel who had the ability to morph into the movie star of my choice, and also FLY. Oh, well.

I can think of some people, most of them celebrities and all of them male, that I’d be tempted to roboticize for my own personal enjoyment. But, honestly, I wouldn’t feel right shacking up with a humanoid representation of a fantasy, especially if I didn’t have his consent. Even if I did have his consent, I’d feel mighty sketchy. Vibrators are one thing. The robot scenario could get altogether too confusing.

It would be very interesting to hang out with an accurate robotic representation of myself, however. As long as I didn’t have to be with it all the time, and could turn it off. I’ll go with that. I’d like my own true-to-life Robot Kelly, not because I’m in love with myself, but because it would be eye-opening, and I don’t think anyone really knows how he/she looks to an outside observer.

This would all change, however, if I were to be stuck forever with this robot. I’d probably have a lot more fun with a pony. Not that kind of fun, assholes.

Q: How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop? Here's a hint: the answer is thrrrreeeeeee… (Wilberteets)

Way to cheat for me, Teetsie. Yay! DONE!

The actual answer, since the damn owl gets too impatient (typical): “The world will never know.”

Q: So, how was the Laundry? Details, woman! (Monkey-King)

You really wanna know? I actually didn’t get around to the laundry when I said I was going to, but I did spend my WHOLE SATURDAY cleaning out my closet and washing everything that needed washing. I’m quite the party-girl.

I also managed to clear my closet of 2 huge garbage bags of stuff to give to charity, and 2 huge garbage bags of stuff to throw away. That was good.

Truthfully, I’m just now starting to freak about my impending move. I’m still calm, but I know I’m freaking out, because my dreams and my grasp on material things are spinning out of control. This means that tomorrow, I’m taking the day off to clean, and to finish my financial aid applications.

When I let such concerns, however subconscious, go unattended, my head goes to hell.

Funny story: Once, about five years ago, during a period of time when I was really stressed and not terribly happy, I was driving home from an audition. Despite being not at all sleepy at the time, I kept nodding off at the wheel and swerving in toward the median, which happens to be one of my own personal nightmares. I opted for the low-speed lane and drove 40 MPH the rest of the way home and practically held my eyelids apart.

When I got to my parents’ house (I was borrowing their car to get to and from the audition), I backed into the driveway, and directly into the pole that supported the decade-old basketball hoop on the side of the driveway. The pole snapped in the middle and toppled towards the house, barely missing the roof of the garage. This was a signature Kelly-move, which I’ve learned to see in slow motion, and all I could do was laugh.

Anyway, this is one of the reasons I want to take care of as much external shit as possible before attempting my cross-country drive to California.

In summary: Laundry was fucking fine. I discovered that I have many more socks than I thought I did.

Q: So, darling, what do you fantasize about now you've stopped obsessing about babysitting Tom Waits' kids? And really, what specifically put you off that particular little daydream? (Hissandtell)

What do I fantasize about? Adrien Brody. Often.

What inspired that daydream? Hm. Okay, for quite a while, I lived in my head, and my celebrity crush fantasies manifested themselves in really weird and innocent ways.

Example: In high school, I used to daydream that Jeff Buckley’s tour van would break down on my parents' street, which in reality they’d never drive on ever EVER, and that Jeff, himself, would come to my door to ask for help. I’d let him use the phone, AAA would arrive and get the van back on the road, me and Jeff would exchange a glance of longing, and he and his band would leave me to go on to fuckin’ … Berlin, or wherever it was that they would tour. Because, obviously, the road that I lived on in high school was an imperative thoroughfare to the airport.

The road where I lived in high school wasn’t an imperative thoroughfare to anything but Cook’s Farm. If Jeff Buckley was performing a concert in the pumpkin patch, I would’ve been so there, but it was not to be.

Anyway. In regards to Tom Waits:

When I was 19, I worked in a café across the street from my college campus. I opened the store most mornings, had the place to myself, and could play my choice of music. Often, this was Tom Waits. I befriended a couple of middle-aged men in this café, because Tom Waits is not really a household name on the east coast, and certainly not among white bread young girls like I was when I was 19.

One of the men I befriended, who was a really cool guy and ordered a large, black coffee every morning, had a son a bit than I. His son was an illustrator, and had apparently done an illustration for Tom Waits once upon a time. (My customer told me this after he recognized a few strains of “Blue Valentine.”)

Same time I had the job at the café, I worked in the Graphic Arts Department at my university. I used to daydream that Tom would come in, really harried, frantic to get a last-minute illustration cover done for an album cover. I would help him out, and would mention with the utmost of 19-year-old white bread aplomb that I loved him and worshipped him. We’d get to chatting, he’d tell me that he and his wife, Kathleen Brennan, had come to Boston quite last minute, and needed a babysitter for the evening. I’d offer to do the job, he’d accept, and VOILA!

Easy as pie. Duh. Even though his kids probably aren’t much younger than I am.
Follow that? Aren’t you glad you asked?

Q: What time is it? (Malthus)

A: Time for a letter!

Dear Awesomeness,

Why do you allude me?

Please pass this on to your pal, Brevity.

Love,
Kelly

Kidding. It’s now 11:48 PM. Fuck knows when I’ll finish this thing. I have the attention span of a lab rat, and I've been chatting with my sister.

Q: Will you still love jellybeans when you move? Do you even like jellybeans? Do you have a favorite type or flavor of jellybean? (Artgnome)

I do love jellybeans, but, you know, the username “luvabeans” was a totally random choice of syllables when I started this journal. I don’t love jellybeans more than any other type of bean, and I don’t love beans more than any other vegetable. If I had had any idea what an online journal was at the inception of this page, I probably would’ve chosen something different. Doesn’t really matter, though, because it seems to fit.

Oh, and I like the red ones. I’m also partial to the buttered popcorn flavor that Jelly Belly makes.

Q: You're on an island. Who would you rather be stuck with - Ewan McGregor, Jude Law or Matt Damon? (See how much I adore you? I'm letting you pick from my List guys.) Also, why? (Mare)

Ah, Mare.

Ewan McGregor. No question. Bless you for even mentioning him, because ever since “Trainspotting,” I’ve LOVED him.

I’ve always been partial to scruffy boys over pretty boys. Banderas over Depp in "Once Upon a Time in Mexico", even. I mean, if Jude Law were to return my phone calls, I suppose I’d go out with him. He is awful nice to look at. But, since we’re talking desert island (even though I'd go with Ewan in any situation), and no one’s a robot (see Question #2), I’d so go for Ewan. I like craggy, imperfect men who could collect bits of sand in their beards. I also think Ewan and I would get along, because that’s the length to which my fantasies can go. Not to mention, the desert island diet would do wonders for my waistline, and after a steady diet of fish and coconut, I'd be irresistible in no time.

Matt Damon seems really nice and all, and we’d have a blast, but I have a feeling he’d insist on doing stomach-crunches, talking about the Red Sox, and playing beach-volleyball all day. No, thanks, Matt, but call me when we get back on the mainland, and we'll get beers.

Okay, I think that’s enough for now. This is fun. I’ll try to answer the rest of them tomorrow, and continue with my theme of answering questions without really answering them. They actually get juicier later on, so come back! Come back!

Brevity? Brevity, are you hanging out with Jude Law and Tom Waits? Because I haven’t heard from any of you guys in a while.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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