Now they're going to bed, and my stomach is sick.

Weekends, it seems are stacked against me. Around 11:00 last night, I got back to my room to find that my carpet had peed on itself. Now, my first instinct was to say, "Sweet holy crap," or something to that effect. And then I of course went to tell my friends what had happened, but abruptly followed that up with finding an RA to inform. I mean, it's not every day your floor pees on itself. It's something that ought to be checked on to ensure that you only need to walk through it to get into (and out of [and into {and out of (and into)}]) and out of on one night's occasion. So with any luck, that floor will be potty-trained within the span of a few days now.

In the meantime, my colon is either very happy to be doing its job, or so vindictive that it's trying to kill any semblance of comfort that sitting used to afford. I suppose I should be happy if it's happy, but something tells me that that isn't the case.

I'm also in a bit of a pickle with regards to something I thought was a blessing up until last night. See, I was contacted through Facebook about a show that will be running in Lincoln starting January, that pays -- money -- and that is casting this weekend. I wasn't contacted by the director directly, but when I called her and told her who had referred me, she was abundantly excited to have me come and audition for the show. We agreed that I'd come at 3:00 today, and so I set about the process of being excited and hoping that I could find somebody to give me a ride there. And it was roughly an hour after I discovered that my floor can't hold its water that I remembered that I am scheduled to work in the library from 1:00 to 5:00 today. So now the problem extends past simply finding a ride there, but also to finding people to cover at least three hours of my shift. This one falls under "by the grace of Jesus" that it'll happen, if it happens.

But nothing compares to finding out that "Someone That You're With" by Nickelback perfectly summarizes that feeling in the pit of your stomach. And there's a part of me that's angry, and a part of me that's nervous, and another part of me that wants to explode into beautiful lyrics and poetry, like this:

My body is timid
And my fortune is trifling
And my home is tiny
And my accomplishments are temporary

But my mind is a tower
And my emotions are a torrent
And my life is a tapestry
And my heart is a tree

And you... are my most-sought treasure.

I thought of that today, and I don't pretend to be a poet. Or a lyricist. But they say that when you're overcome with a powerful emotion such as love, you find the strength to do extraordinary things, like lift a car off of your child, or overcome the flames in a burning building and rescue them before the place comes down on the both of you. I guess that since I don't have any real strength over anyone, other than the way I view the world (the only thing I truly consider special about myself), I end up being able to weave words together... for an audience that is unlikely to ever hear them.

How the hell did Shakespeare find a woman AND a man to love him?