Wendy's kids meal

If you do not call soon, I will surely be trying to contact you to see how your appointment went, but for now, I will work on this blog, which has been neglected for ONE WEEK. I really feel quite awful about this.

I ate Chinese food today! It made me so extremely happy. Also, Project Runway is on, and I have had to read, practice my cello, e-mail Rachel, and talk to Eileen. It doesn't take much to make me happy. AND Jesus Christ just came on iTunes. Life is good, I think.

Two peanut butter sandwiches! Look at you! Aw, Abby. You should get started on Madeline tomorrow so that we can have intellectual conversations about my favortie piece of literature of all time.

Did you change your schedule yet? You probably should get right on that, as the actual deadline was yesterday.

Man, it really has been a long, long time since I have written. This is a record, definitely. But, I have been sick, and you have been sick, and I have been over (twice), so I think we KIND of have an excuse. Not really, though.

I would probably still like you if you killed someone, because it doesn't change you, really, because a person is a lot deeper than their actions every once in a while. But maybe we are always defined by our actions. How else could we be defined? Do we need to be defined? I just confused myself to the extreme. So I put on some Beyonce. There is a difference in not paying a parking ticket and killing someone, Abby. In one, you are stealing somebody's life. There is not normally an excuse for this. Though there is usually. I guess, if somebody didn't pay a parking ticket for some elaborate reason that involves darting the law and avoiding paying money to the government because they don't want to support homeless people and people with bad medical incurance, this could be worse than someone killing somebody as self defense because they are about to be raped and shot. That was nice. I don't think we CAN put crimes on different "levels" because they go into way too much depth and reasoning. We can't put anything on any level, because there is always more thinking to be involved.

Why did your soul temporarily die? This is not something to kid about, Abigail. I am going to try to bring you spaghetti tomorrow, in hopes that you will consume it. You love spaghetti, remember?

Don't tell me that people always leave, because I don't want to believe it, and you can be quite convincing. I just don't want to fall under the category of your greatest fear.

Nobody ever gets the timing right. Right timing does not exist.

It isn't that we never meet worthwhile people, Abby. But why do we need to know who likes us, and who doesn't? People will at least usually ACT like they do, so why can't we be content with this? Why do I feel the need to question whether or not people agree with me, or find me funny, or interesting. This is saddening. We should all be content liking ourselves. If we do, nothing else should matter. But it does, and we can't change that, and we rely on others to make us happy, and we feel the need to be loved, or appreciated, and then we do things we wouldn't normally do to make other people happy, and that's wrong. And not wanting to tell every single detail of your life, and maybe wanting to keep some things to yourself, shouldn't really be an issue, but maybe this drives people away, keeping secrets? But, secrets are what we keep to make people like us. I really want to watch 10 Things I Hate About You now. It seems like a positive time.

Abigail, you are a good person. And this alone is an admirable trait. If it makes you feel better, I will say that you are the scum of the earth and refuse to think highly of anything you do, but only to your face. Secretly, I will I-DOL-IZE you. Well, not idolize, but I will continue thinking you have good qualities that you do not seem to be aware of. And quit folding. And hiding. But I can't just tell you to do that. I fold. I hide. Everybody folds and hides. That's what we do, as people. You have the same flaws as everybody else, just maybe to a different extent. We all share the same problems, but some of us have them more extremely than others. I still don't understand guilt, and never will.

The Ragpicker smiled and nodded, without thinking of where she was headed. So they stood up, stretched, and walked down, the Ragpicker leading the overly-excited Ticketmaster. As she strolled the familiar path, she realized the difference it made to be with someone else. How greener the leaves looked. How less disgusting the dirty puddles appeared. How lovely those street hot dogs smelled at ten in the morning. She looked sideways at her glowing acquaintance and grinned, asking what the Ticketmaster would enjoy for breakfast, hoping that the Ticketmaster would eat SOMETHING.

Three Things I Wish I Were Really Good At
1. The cello. I can play it, but not well, and I would really, really, really like to be successful at it, because I like it oh-so-much. If not the cello, I really enjoy the harmonica.
2. Conversations. One day, I will drop all awkwardness behind me, and people will be amazed.
3. Advice. People need it, and I would like to be able to give it. But only good, non-controlling advice. There is nothing worse than receiving advice that gives you only one option.

It has started snowing, at which I was so joyful. Not because of the snow day, for which I am not that excited, but because I realized that this means I will get to go snowing. And I love sledding. So, hooray for snow. This is the, what, 18th post for the month of January? Out of 45? It's okay. Life's still good.

Good-bye, Abigail Rose. Smile. Like the Nat King Cole song.