ALL YOUR CONSULTING DETECTIVE ARE BELONG TO US

Have just been cast as Touchstone in As You Like It! Wh00t! And as Sherlock Holmes in Sherlock and the Woman! WTF?

Basically, this is going to mean duct tape and sports bras. And lots of them. If anyone has a good way of cross dressing to tell me, I would so appreciate it. You have no idea. My Holmes at the moment looks like, well, Kat dressing up as Holmes. In fact, doesn't even look like Holmes, because we've given the deerstalker and pipe a miss. (Gasp! But then again, this is Holmes circa 1870ish so he's only about fifteen.) But ZOMG Touchstone! So excited! I mean, on a scale of lame old Eddie Murphy from the eighties to Monty Python, Touchstone is about a Jim Carrey and not quite a Holmes-snarking-at-Watson. Which means he kicks ass, in short. Ergo, so do I. End.

But to begin again.

Name: Kat B., Kitty, Holmes, Kitty Holmes, Katie Holmes, except not, the Narrator, the ENTIRE Russian Mafia, Touchstone, et. al.
Age: Old as my tongue, a little older than my teeth.
Hair: N/A?
Current obsession: ZOMG SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Speaking of which, I am making a not very firm resolution to myself. Here it is.

I will not write Watson/Holmes slash. I will not write Holmes/Watson slash. I will not write Holmes/Watson slash. I will not write Holmes/Watson slash. I will NOT write Holmes/Watson slash. I WILL not write Holmes/Watson slash. I will not WRITE Holmes/Watson slash. I will not write HOLMES/WATSON slash. I will not write Holmes/Watson SLASH. I WILL NOT WRITE HOLMES WATSON SLASH!

I am making such an effort of will to prevent this from happening that it's not even funny, I swear to God. I mean, when the actual canon contains phrases like, "Quick, Watson! If you love me!" and "So sorry to knock you up," it's difficult to resist. It's equally hard not to write Holmes/Irene Adler, but I'm surviving. Barely. Mostly by comparing people to fictional characters. (I will NEVER stop.)

Comment at once if convenient. If inconvenient, comment all the same.

K.H.

ALL YOUR NOVEL ARE BELONG TO US

Oh. My. God.

Seperate Peace is eating my soul.

Why can't Phineas and the other one just admit that:

A) They are gay for each other.

and

B) This book isn't much good.

That's what I want to know.

ALL YOUR BIRTHDAY ARE BELONG TO US

MICKEY'S BIRTHDAY IS TODAY

YAY FOR CAPSLOCK AND KITTY BEING ON THE COMPUTER WHEN SHE SHOULD BE DOING LAUNDRY

I WILL STOP NOW

BEFORE THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE PWNS ME

ALL YOUR ADVICE COLUMN ARE BELONG TO US

Dear Oscar Wilde,

Okay, old friend. Well, technically, we're not old friends, but I'm a big fan. Sorry, I know you must get this a lot. Anyway. I'm having some issues, and I was hoping you could help me work them out. Yeah, I know. Well, of course it's about men. You had your share of difficulties with them too, didn't you? That Lord Alfred Douglas, really.

So the point is, Oscar:

Why does life persist in sucking so abominably? Please respond promptly.

With all due respect,
Kat

---

Dear Freud, Kinsey, Jung, and assorted other physcologistical persons of that sort of nature,

HELP ME!

Love,
Kat

---

Dear Simone de Beauvoir,

Why are you on my mind so much lately?

Kisses,
Kat

---

Dear small girl in the off the shoulder shirt that I saw at the Marmalade Café today,

Why are you wearing that shirt? You look like a minislut. You must be really cold, too. I'm sorry. Does your mom make you dress like that? I certainly hope not. I'm glad I was never like you. Why did children seem so androgynous while I was one? When did they lose that quality?

Love,
Kat

---

Dear Stephen Sondheim,

I know that if you were here you would tell me what to do, or at least write a song about it that would make the world seem brighter generally.

Worshipfully,
Kat

---

Dear Jonathan Larson,

About that whole dying thing.

WHY?

Affectionately,
Kat

---

Dear Idina Menzel,

Stop. Just stop.

XOXO,
Kat

---

Dear Kristin Chenoweth,

That goes for you too.

XOXO,
Kat

---

Dear Paris Hilton,

I'm sure in some obscure way, this will all turn out to be your fault.

Damn you.

Furiously,
Kat

---

Dear my generation,

Why are you all so stupid?

Inquiringly,
Kat

---

Dear members of my generation who are not stupid,

Why do you either all hate me or live far away?

Plaintively,
Kat

---

Dear Holden Caufield,

Any ideas?

Love,
Kat

ALL YOUR SHAKESPEARE ARE BELONG TO US

I am going to see how many ALL YOUR BASE titles I can do before it all caves in. I figure, as life goals go, not a bad one.

Am madly in love with a girl named Joanna. Srsly. She is a Shakespeare person and a ballerina and her name is really Joanna. (But no H.) I start singing every time I see her. I'm thinking this is not improving my chances of getting blessed by she of the yellow hair. Sadly, she actually doesn't have yellow hair, she has perfectly mundane brown hair, but what the hell. As I am, after all, the Demon Barber of the High School, I suppose that any relationship would be OMGINCESTBAD but oh well. My last crush was on a cowboy named Erik, and seeing as I was once the Phantom of the Junior High, that's almost like masturbation.

I am going to pull my mind out of the gutter now. I PROMISE. REALLY.

Oh, like that's even possible. I'm a teenager. Whaddaya want from me?

LADY PERCY: O my good lord, why are you thus alone?
For what offense have I this fortnight been
A banished woman from my Harry's bed?
Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee
Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?
Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,
And start so often when thou sit'st alone?
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks
And given my treasures and my rights of thee
To thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy?
In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watched,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars,
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed,
Cry 'Courage! to the field!' And thou hast talked
Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents,
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,
Of prisoners' ransom, and of soldiers slain,
And all the currents of a heady fight.
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath so bestirred thee in thy sleep,
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow
Like bubbles in a late-disturbèd stream,
And in thy face strange motions have appeared,
Such as we see when men restrain their breath
On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these?
Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,
And I must know it, else he loves me not.

That's what I have to memorize fore Ye Olde Classe of the Manne Who Shooke A Speare. Le sigh.

Well, frankly, all I had to hear was, "You're married to Harry Hotspur from Henry IV," and I was sold on the part. Srsly. Hotspur. He is one smexy historical fiction character. (He acts exactly as you would imagine a guy named Hotspur to act, by the by.)

I want to see Pirates of the Caribbean so bad. The world continues to conspire against me.

ALL YOUR SHAKESPEARE ARE BELONG TO US.

Still Not Simone de Beauvoir. You Know, Just Saying.

Stop that, Max, you're not Sartre either, stoppit.

Actually, all this Simone de Beauvoir business stems from this seriously odd dream I had where Max was Jean Paul Sartre and I was Simone de Beauvoir. You know, the Second Sex chick. She wrote that if a woman pees standing up she will experience an epiphany. When my friend Janice was six. I, hearing this from mom, told her about it, and she tried it. She didn't experience any epiphanies. But urine got everywhere. Srsly. Not pretty. Ah well.

OMG. Mickey, do I ever have a new guy for the harem.

His name is Tony Vincent, he played Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar and he is guh. Just. . .guh. I mean. Guh.

I have this terrible impulse to kidnap Stephen Sondheim and force him to write a House musical.

Such a good idea. SUCH A GOOD IDEA, SRSLY OMG.

Oh, and by the way, just to corrupt anyone who watches House. . .

HOUSE AND WILSON 4 EVAH.

They are meant to be.

Why do I insist on making all the attractive men I see gay in fiction? Never mind, don't answer that.

I'm having one of those days when I enjoy being a shallow young teen. The fact that I'm talking about Sartre would seem to indicate that I'm not much good at that. But I'm trying. I'm listening to the Bad Day song from American Idol, for pity's sake.

The Hughs are ruling my life at present. That's Laurie and Panaro, in case you are not enlightened.

Also: Colin Firth. IS A GOOD THING FOR EVERYONE. AND SO IS RUPERT EVERETT. AND THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST MOVIE IS LOVE. LOOOOOOVE. Except Reese Witherspoon, who is ew.

Cole Porter also good thing for people yes is he. My grammar dead syntax also yes yes.

I Am NOT Simone de Beauvoir.

I am behaving in an absurdly foolish manner.

I am enjoying this enormously.

I am tall.

I am getting thinner, hopefully.

I am Peter Pan.

I am a respectable adult, thank you very much.

I am a geek.

I am a Neil Gaiman stalker.

I am a phan.

I am an STD.

I am an STD in a way that is not the way you thought of when you read the above.

I am not Dolly Parton.

I am an older, more cynical Anne Rice.

I am Lestat.

I AM HEATHCLIFF!

I am making gratuitous Wuthering Heights references.

I am so obnoxious.

I am happy.

I am an idiot.

I am a hick.

I am a sophisticate.

I am confused.

I am a songbird who sings that sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.

I am I am I am.

I just am.

I am female.

I am male.

I am androgynous.

I am me, as opposed to a reflection of the person/people I love.

I am me, as opposed to a reflection of the person/people I love.

I am me, as opposed to a reflection of the person/people I love.

I am me, as opposed to a reflection of the person/people I love.

I am a vacation.

I am alone.

I am crowded.

I am crazy.

I am sane.

I am Franz Ferdinand, yes, all of them.

I am Garfield the cat, not the president.

I am Allan Ginsberg, but less talented.

I am confused.

I am writing a stream of consciousness.

I am so drunk I don't mind if you kill me.

I am explaining to you that the above was a Franz Ferdinand lyric from the song Jacqueline and so you don't have to worry about my stability.

I am happy.

I am happy.

I am I am.

I am writing experimentally.

I am in love with Holden Caufield.

I am Holden Caufield.

I am not Holden Caufield.

I am bored.

I am not.

I am.

I am going to make somebody love me.

I am a troubled, conflicted young teen.

I am a seagull.

I am a fourteen year old wishing she was Chekhov.

I am Bob Dylan.

I am a squirrel.

I am a question mark.

I am going to go to the bookstore now.

I am a vampire.

I am looking for my Marius.

I am not Cosette, in case that crossed your mind.

I am Cosette.

I am Eponine.

I am Gavroche.

I am Enjolras.

I am making dear old Victor Hugo spin in his grave.

I AM JEAN VALJEAN!

I am Kat ValKat!

I am really not funny.

I am hysterical.

I am sorry.

I am behaving in an absurdly foolish manner.

Luuuucy, I'm Hooooome. . .

Someday the English language will cart itself off to a home for abused phonetic constructions and I'll be in trouble with the linguistic social services. But anyway.

Kat's home from the Musical Theatre Camp of DEATH. Colin and Ember were not present - Ember soon will be, however, at the Shakespeare Camp that will indeed soon begin, yes it will, so watch this space for further developements. Kat is so happy! She speaks in third person!

I, while at camp, wrote a ridiculous amount of letters, figured out my life, developed a crush on a cowboy named Erik, undeveloped said crush, redeveloped it, sort of sat there and looked confused, ended up having a very brief and boring dance date with a guy named Mitch who kept stepping on my toes, didn't (and still don't) know how I feel about cowboy Erik, played the title character in Peter Pan, grew up, degenerated into an eight year old, grew up again, and read lots of Russian poetry by a man named Yevtushenko who takes himself much, much too seriously.

So I've been a busy little girl.

Oh, and I started A Seperate Peace. Here is all you need to know about this book:

Two boys, one an intellectual the other a prenaturally charming athelete, compete and are friends during the summer at a boarding school during WW2.

That's really all you need to know.

Although I must state, as I have stated before:

CATCHER IN THE RYE KICKS ASS.

Hee hee, that just gave me an idea. I should totally write a blog post pretending to be Holden Caufield. I really should. But it would probably make the rest of you even more goddamn depressed, I swear to God. Old Mickey's a good kid, she really is. . .

Okay, I'll stop now. Before I start imitating Gertrude Stein. For there is only one blog, only one, only one.

ACK I MUST STOP NO MORE JD SALINGER/GERTRUDE STEIN IMPRESSIONS FROM KAT THIS EVENING KTHNXBAI.

(If you didn't get any of the above, it means that you are neither SP or Kat. So that's all right.)

Quote of the Day

"Erik, aren't you interested in theatre at all?"

"Only if things blow up. Hey, let's blow up a theatre!"

- The cowboy. And Kat, as it were.