In Which Kat Expresses Her Feelings

I am not: Serene. No way.

I love: (Ahem.) Deep question. Hey look, a bird!

I hate: Anthro class, David stealing my English book and puttiing a spoon in my purse, not being able to see my friends every day.

I fear: Being swallowed by a horse. . .Miz put that, and so, in the ongoing theme of carnivorous horses. . .and also, I fear expressing unrequited feelings. Don't we all?

I hope: That things will turn out all right, and that my talent show act will be a hit, and that. . .(mutters incoherently about. . .things.)

I hear: Luke's muffled cries. He's stuck in a tissue box.

I crave: Yogurt covered raisins, Hugh Panaro's voice, some good company and an update on certain fan fictions. . .

I regret: An unbelievably large amount of things. You have no idea. Being so evil to a certain person, ever allowing Mac to order me around, not - (Mumbles some more.)

I cry: Almost never. I don't cry. I just don't cry.

I care: For muffins, PotO, my friends, my blog readers, and PotO, and my friends, and muffins, and Monty Python!

I always: Support E/N in any conceivable situation.

I believe: In God, otherwise known as John Cleese.

I feel alone: Right now. So much. God, slap me if I get too depressing.

I listen: To Crawford's Music of the Night, and the Spamalot soundtrack! "Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Robin!"

I hide: From the kid-eating horse. . .aaaaaa! (Again with the horses, Miz. Why do you fear the horses?)

I drive: In my dreams.

I sing: Always look on the bright side of life! If life seems jolly rotten, there's something you've forgotten, and that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing!

I dance: Not terribly badly.

I write: Straaange fan fiction, straaaaaaange plays, and really straaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaange blog entries.

I play: Basketball, at gunpoint.

I miss: The person I miss knows who.

I search: For the question to the ultimate answer. For fulfillment. For a soul mate. For a non-cheesy answer to this question.

I learn: Very little in Mr. Edelyn's class.

I feel: Oh, God, where do I begin. . .I feel. . .um. . .frustrated. In a good way.

I know: Very little Mr. Edelyn has tried to teach me.

I saw: I came, I conquered. . .no, that's not right. . .

I succeed: At acting. Sometimes, but not as much as Ember.

I dream: Very weird and convoluted plots... I wish I could press print in my brain. Ditto, Miz.

I fight: Everything.

And now for something completely different.

What is it with me and being touched? I don't understand myself. I didn't mind people touching me until I was eleven. And from that point forward, since then, I've been sort of adverse to being touched. But that's starting to change, and that's what I find really creepy. I'll admit, I don't exactly broadcast my feelings most of the time. It makes me scared. I guess. About what, now that is anyone's guess. And I suppose that not wanting to be touched is part of that, in its way.

Scary thing. I have stopped disliking being touched. That's very scary for me. In an absolutely good way.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.