This is Half of An Original Post That Got Screwed Up in the Process of Awesome. Still...Read.

Hello. I am the blog. I just want to inform how careless your "beloved" narrator is to me. She never types to me anymore! Do you know how lonesome it is here? To be a forum, with NO friends? Not even ONE measly comment to keep me entertained and feeling beautiful. She is an absolute slob and she never keeps her commitments because she frets all day about you wretched followers. If you people weren't so gosh darn adorable, she would MAYBE feel good enough to write to entertain! So keep that in mind, you so-called Inklings! KEEP IT IN MIND!

I do so very dearly apologize to you guys. I was at camp and then my week has been BUSY BUSY BUSY like a buzzing bee who just found an entire mountain of daisies. Only, I hate daisies. So, I was a very busy and disappointed young bee impersonator. kjhasjh! Sorry, just checking my spell check...it works! :D

I'd love to personally welcome all new Inkbots to this cavern of crazy--you are truly amazing for giving part of your time to read my goings-ons. :) *throws NOT daisies, but a nice flower to them and bows*

Here's a quick little rant to you: ANGER! There you go. Rant over. No, but seriously. I am sorta getting fed up with people older than me liking to pick fights. By the book (which, I wish someone could actually SHOW ME a book where this is an actual fact of life), adults are supposed to be the mature ones, and I'm supposed to be the reckless teenager joy-riding old ladies car to burn down an orphanage or something. But it seems to me that the adults are behind the wheel and prepared to commit arson. Why can't regular teenagers get in arguments with me?? That would be so much easier to handle!
Regular Teenager: You're stupid!
Me: My report card says otherwise.
Regular Teenager: Dangit. You're right.

See? Much easier to handle.

I went to an Indian Museum yesterday. I live in Oklahoma. Do you know how hot it gets hear? Too hot, my friends. Too hot. So I'm walking around for thirty minutes, wearing a black tee shirts and jeans with my fake-hair (straight hair. I'm as curly as a sheep in the wintertime) and there is this man who speaks better Cherokee than English explaining what the crap a pot is. I may not be full Cherokee (I am a smidgen) but I'm pretty sure we all know pots are made of clay. Just saying.