ADORABLE GIRLS PLUM PUDDING COTTON FLORAL DRESS**SIZE 7

Umm...so I clicked on the title box to type something when the list of things that have already been typed came up...you know what I'm talking about? And then this appeared...what is plum pudding cotton, I would like to know?

Something happened to my poor computer that is making it move soooo slooowleeeeeee. It is crazy.

I think, just because I have never ridden in an airplane, that it must be extraordinary. How do they work, really? I honestly think that it has nothing to do with physics or any sort of science, but something else. You can't fly just knowing Newton's laws. That doesn't seem fair. Birds must have been really nice to earn the ability to fly. What do clouds look like when you fly through them? Do they ever let you stick your hand out of the window on airplanes? Probably not, which is quite sad.

Staying home is nice. When I was called downstairs yesterday, it was for my help on a puzzle. Seriously. I love them so much, the intensity of them and that puzzle. Just my parents, working on a Snoopy puzzle at 12:30. They stayed up working on that puzzle until about 1:30. For some reason, it made me unbelievably happy, seeing them work on that puzzle for so long. Actually, I know what reason. They looked happy, which was nice, and they didn't yell at me, which was nicer, and they applauded me every time I found a piece. Actually, my dad said, "You're the coolest!" every time either my mom or I found a piece, which would have gotten crazy annoying if I wasn't so darn happy, so I just laughed. It was nice, really and truly, which has begun to be quite rare in this household.

You CAN take a day off a week to avoid any technology. There isn't anything stopping you, except if you have to use a computer at school. So do it on a Sunday or something. I encourage this idea. Go forth into the lifestyle of your Amish relatives, Abby!

I like cups. Mugs, actually. They look so simple and happy and purposeful.

I don't think it would do that much damage to my hip bone. You and those danged golden hairs are not nearly as cool as me with my silly putty.

You know what? After careful consideration and arguments between two separate parts of my brain, that actually makes sense. It IS all there, I guess. We just have to mold it, for lack of a better term, to fit us, I guess.

Who we are doesn't have much to do with genetics. I am not defined by my unattached earlobes that can also be found on my parents. I wouldn't say that is the most important part of me, and I'm sure most others would agree. That hasn't had much of an impact on my in the long run. And when people say that I inherit my father's sense of humor, that has nothing to do with genetics. Genetics are chromosomes and blood and things that don't acually make any sense. The sense of humor comes from listening to his lame jokes and eventually finding them funny enough to take on. There was no gene that said that I would be sarcastic like them. That was from listening for hours to their harsh comments. I'm not sure how this started???

I think I would be horrified to see my complete thought process. I would rather ignore the fact that I spend half of my time spacing out on "pointless" thoughts and instead believe that I might actually be a "deep" person. Though this will not happen, probably.

Doesn't it sound so weird when you move the probably around in a sentence? "Though this probably will not happen". "Though this will probably not happen". "Though this will not happen, probably."

Guilt is a crazy thing, really. How do you know when to feel guilty? Why do some people feel guilty much more easily than others? Why aren't some people even affected by guilt? Or do they even feel it? Is this a sign of a "good" person, when you feel guilt over little things? I don't know.

Why isn't is ever the other way around? Like, Audrey E. B. Or Abigail R. B. I like Norman. I've always been a fan. I always thought that my Aunt Bev and Uncle George sounded like a cute elephant couple. Or maybe little birds. One extreme or the other.

I hate being told that I am acting different. What does that mean, exactly? How was I before? No one should tell you that you are acting different, even if it is a compliment, because it makes you think that somewhere along the way something or the other changed, which is so incredibly confusing, and this person has no right to tell you that you changed because maybe you didn't? Or maybe you did? And that there was something in your life that needed changing, or there was something in your life that didn't and you have completely messed it up. Ag. Change is constant, or that's what they say, right? Be happy, and as lame as it sounds, be who you want to be, really. Be comfortable. That is the best thing in the entire world, when you are happy and comfortable and you. I like this song "Blue Skies".

I wish my jokes weren't so mean-spirited, because I think about them after, and not many people will know that that is just the way I am, so I usually am just quiet as to not hurt anyone's feelings, but then that becomes slightly boring, so I return to my nonhurtful-but-slightly-hurtful jokes that are usually meant for only me. When I am really and truly angry with someone, I manage to keep it inside most often and wait until the storm blows over and we're on good terms, and then I tend to make the point that I wanted to get across in a joking manner, which is good in that no one gets upset, but then the point DOESN'T get across.

I have just been informed that there are fourteen more pieces of the puzzle left. Yup, they are still working on it.

Despite her poverty and slightly disturbing career, the Ragpicker still managed to attain a cell phone and keep friends, mostly bums, at her side. She blushed rapidly, recognizing the Oriental ringtone as well, knowing something that the oblivious Ticketmaster did not. Just as the Ticketmaster had moved on to find "love" with Garfunkle, the Ragpicker herself had snatched a spicy Asian lover. Paul was born in Chicago to two Taiwanese parents but had left their overly-protective household at the age of sixteen to play his one love, the harp, on the streets of the chilly Windy City. He had since traveled the globe as the most talentes street-player ever known, and he continued to refuse offers from the world's greatest symphonies as it was against his morals. The Ragpicker was instantly smitten with him in her fragile state after their dramatic break-up, but at the sight of the Ticketmaster, Paul was instantly forgotten. Except for that repetitive jingle...

That was long. I got a little carried away with my lover's life story. Poor Paul...

I used to hate the phrase "a lot" when I was in fourth grade because I thought it sounded so incredibly stupid, so I started using "a large amount" in all of my papers, which would probably become annoying after being used five hundred million times.

This is a long post, I believe. Possibly the longest from me.

You will never, ever stop calling me. Never. And you know it, Abigail.

I am off to whatever. Being spontaneous as always. Or as never. Why don't you ever hear anyone say "as never"?