DefiantAllomancer

Just finished Defiant. I need a pet taynix now.

Hi everyone, and happy holidays! 

Quick update: I recently was able to get Defiant from the library, and I'm enjoying it so far. Had two church services yesterday, one today, and am slowly but surely losing my mind. At least there's hot chocolate. 

Again, happy holidays. 

Hey guys... Just finished first night of nutcracker last night! Today, I'm performing again. Wish me luck! 

 

I'm playing a father (so I wear a suit and a hat) and a flower (so I also wear a big pink dress). 

Alright my guys, let's get down to business...

It appears that I have not posted a statues update since NOVEMBER SECOND. That was TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS AGO. ALMOST A WHOLE MONTH!!!! Talk about a LAME person. Well, here I am, posting yet another, because I know you all can't resist (instead of hearing) reading my voice. Well, y'all... It's storytime with Defiant! 

Okay, so the other day, I came home, and I sat on my bed, after a LONG LONG LONG LONG day. And I mean a LONG day. My family overslept that morning, and so we freaked out, my dad had to drive me to school. Then, I had a few tests, all of which I got good grades on, but found quite difficult. Next, we started the basketball unit in gym. If you know me in person, one of the first things you will learn is that I HATE BASKETBALL WITH EVERY TINY DARK SAD FIBER OF MY USELESS BEING. Like, who decided, "Hey! You know what would be a GRAND idea? Let's throw a big, heavy, hard ball into a group of people and tell them to get it in a hole, and expect nobody to DIE!!!"? And all the dudes in the room just nodded and went, "Yeah, yeah, yeah." And that's how the most idiotic, dangerous, nail-breaking, sadness-causing sport was invented.

Anyway, at the end of the school day, my mom was coming to pick me up on her way home from work, but she was running ten minutes late, and so I decided, hey! 10 minutes isn't too long. And it isn't that cold out. I'll just wait outside by the parking lot! 

Friends, don't be stupid like me. It very soon became apparent that it really WAS that cold out, and I thought I was going to die. But just as it was almost time for my mom to arrive, she texts me, "Hey honey, my pottery teacher was there and I didn't wanna be rude. So now I'm 10 more minutes late." 

AAAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!! So I waited in the cold and I didn't go into the field house or anything because the school building code didn't work after a certain time, and the boys were playing BASKETBALL in the field house. (Again, that recurring theme of basketball. It's like real-life foreshadowing. Maybe I'll be an NBA player when I'm older.) So I waited, and waited, and waited. She was even longer than she said she would be, and when she finally made it, I was VERY thankful. 

As soon as I got home, it was time to get dressed really fast, because in a few minutes, it was time to go to ballet rehearsal, which I'm having every day this week for three and a half hours to four hours non stop this week, because I'm performing in the Nutcracker tomorrow and Saturday. Once I got there, I started to feel really nauseous, and it was worse than usual, which is always pretty bad anyway. (I have an infection in one of my organs.. I had to go to the ER a while ago.)

So yeah, all that, and I got hame and didn't have enough time for dinner, because I had to go to bed. 

So there I was sitting down on my bed, and all of a sudden, CHOMP! My cat, from under the bed, just bites my ankle, and keeps gnawing on it. And I say, "Mikey! You stupid, obese, psychopathic cat, why are you so mean?!" And he just stares at me and bites harder. So I swag at him, and he stops biting and looks up at me, and I say, "Baby, do you know what Mommy's been through today?" And he says, "Merpleferp!" 

Obviously, he does know. So I say, "So why are you being mean?" And he replies, "Hoowoowooploopdoop!" 

So I kicked him out of my room. The end. 

 

Now that I think of it, that was a very boring story, but I hope you enjoyed storytime with Defiant! 

Love you all!!!

Yikes. Sorry I'm almost never active. 

My screen time is limited to being able to use it from 6 am to 9 pm and I only have 2 and a half hours of total usage throughout the day. 

I also have been having a hectic past month, with some stuff going on with my brother struggling in school, and having to switch to another, and my test grades have plummeted because of this huge ordeal, and my overall life is crashing down around me, but I'm trying my best to fight it, and you know, keep up my social life, so...   

Just had this random thought...

 

Who else has random moments where you wish there was some random ugly person who would just appear whenever you need it so they can just punch that random ugly person in the face or the stomach or give them a paper cut, and they would scream like a little girl, cry a bit, and then disappear once you're happy again?

 

Is it just me?

I really don't know why I'm sharing this... I guess I just kind of got bored, so here's a little paragraph of the novel I'm writing:

 

So um... That happened.

I mentioned in a recent status update that I was writing a sequel to the Divergent trilogy. I'm super excited. I'm onto chapter 3, and I've already designed the cover.

This took me about 4 hours. It probably shouldn't have taken so long, but I had to think of a title, and a theme phrase. You know, one choice can... That stuff. It was really fun, and this is what I came up with! (The crossed out space is where my name was.)

Here it is.... 

Wow. I just realized I haven't written anything on here since the Threnodite Hunger Games started, but now that I've committed suicide, both expelling myself from the games, and hopefully getting someone else killed too, I can post my latest short story: The Bird. (I'm pretty sure I haven't shared this yet.) [Also, I'm writing a fan fiction sequel to the Divergent Trilogy... Don't know how well that'll go. I'll probably end up giving up on it.]

 

The Bird

            A long time ago, I loved a man, and I married him, but he didn’t have the same love for me as I did for him, and he left me for a woman he met at a bar. Seven months later, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She was everything to me, and I loved her more than anything else in the whole world. She had bright, watchful eyes, like a bird’s, and she was light as a feather, and as gentle and graceful as a butterfly. I named her Wren, because she reminded me of the small birds I so often saw outside my window during the warmer months. 

             As she grew up, she became more and more like a bird, and she stood tilted forward onto her toes, and her arms hovered out to the sides, so she always looked ready to run away at the slightest noise, or be blown away at a gust of wind. She had me cut her hair short, less than a three-inch length, and she was too shy to go to school. Instead, I homeschooled her, and she came to work with me. It was hard to make enough money to sustain the two of us, but we did it, and we never gave up. She developed an obsession over birds, and she studied them every moment of her free time, tracing pictures of their wings, and making little wooden sculptures of them. She loved to build, and draw, and carve, and most of her creations were bird related. When she was seven years old, she made a giant, wonderful kite that caught the wind, and soared higher than any other in the sky. How the children gasped when they saw the bright, colorful contraption rise higher and higher into the sky, swaying above all the other kites. 

            She would carry it carefully to the park on a windy day, and unravel the string. Then she would toss it into the air and sprint the other direction, making it snap taut in the air, and ascend steadily into the clouds like a bird, the curled blue ribbons fluttering like the feathers of a peacock’s tail. Wren added more to the kite every day, poring over it carefully, and once in a while whispering, “I wish I were a bird,” as if the kite had some magic power to grant her wishes. She muttered it under her breath over and over again, like a prayer, and she talked to the birds as they ate at the bird feeder, asking them about what it was like to fly. 

            For Halloween every year, she was a different type of bird, fluttering her fake wings with excitement as she skipped from house to house, her voice heightened to a chirp. When the neighbors asked what she was, she would tell them the name of the bird, and though they most often hadn’t even heard of the species, they always seemed interested in her explanation of it. She would tell them its bird calls, its eating habits, and its flying patterns. One day, she was flying her kite on an extra windy day, and the kite was higher than ever, violently thrashing, and pulling Wren this way and that, but she still had a huge delighted grin plastered on her face. A few times, it threatened to yank her off her feet, and I tried to snatch it from her, but she shook her head and beamed at me, then glanced at her kite, and I couldn’t take it from her. The wind finally mellowed, and it was a gentle breeze that moved her kite in the air. I took a deep, relieved breath and the tension drained from my body. Wren frowned up at the sky, and set her jaw in determination. It all happened so fast, I couldn’t process it in time. With strength surprising, especially for someone of her size and weight, she pulled on the kite and ran again, tiny muscles straining against the wind resistance, then leaped into the air. The string stretched tight, and she flew into the air.

            She shrieked in exhilaration and let go of the string with one hand, stretching it out to one side and leaning her head back. “Wren! Hold on!” I looked around in a panic, and started screaming for help. “Help! Someone! Help!” Wren was screaming too, but not out of fear, or a desire for help. She was screaming in happiness. I shielded my eyes from the sun and squinted up at her. She was gliding through the air, and the wind had picked up again, swinging her back and forth in the sky, in huge arches, while she held one hand out to the side, and her legs were straight, together behind her. The wind blew in her face, blowing her short hair around her dainty face, which was bright with excitement. Not once did she look down, or seem afraid, but she looked up instead, at the kite. The kite began to shiver in the air, and it fell like a stone, Wren falling too. Her hand opened, releasing it, and her tiny body was stiff and silent as she fell. 

            I gasped and rushed to catch her, but not in time, and she crashed to the ground, her limbs splayed in positions they never should have. “Wren!” I cried, and kneeled by her, gathering her up in my arms. She groaned with pain, and her eyes dimmed, the light, and the life draining out of them. I stroked her hair, trying to comfort her, but I was the one of us who needed the comfort. Not a tear marred her beautiful face, and there was still a faint smile on her face, contorted in pain as it was. 

 

            “Mother?” 

            “Yes?” 

            “Why can the birds fly, but we can’t?” 

            “Because…” I searched for an answer. “Because they know they can. You can fly too, you just need to believe you can. “ I choked back a sob as she weakly turned her head and stretched out a broken, shaking arm. 

            “Mother?”

            “Yes?”

            She looked at me, and as she left, she smiled. “I am flying, Mother.” 

 

The End. 

I wrote yet another short story. I've been working on this one for a while, trying to work out the different details. Thank you so much for the positive feedback in my previous stories! Have a good day, and make sure to watch out for your shadows. You never know when they'll turn on you!  

 

The Shadow

            Have you ever wondered what would happen if your shadow turned against you? Your shadow reflects your motions, imitates them, yes? Or is it the other way around? And if your shadow did turn against you, how would you defend yourself against something that controls you?

            Dirch was a young boy, eight years old, and he loved ice cream and cake more than anything else. His buttons often popped off because of his round stomach, so his mother, a rather skinny and gaunt woman who always appeared to be starving, replaced all his buttoned coats with zippers, and threw away all his button-down shirts. But the zippers broke too, and the grown-up coats that might have fit him around his stomach were so long they dragged on the floor.

            At first, when his memories started disappearing, he assumed he had just fallen asleep, so there was nothing to remember, but as blank spaces in time where memories should have existed appeared more and more often, his parents became worried and brought him to doctors. Nothing fixed it, and the doctors couldn't find anything wrong with him other than that he ate too much.

            His mother worried and worried, for he was her little child, and her only child. She feared she would never have another, for she had become a widow barely months after the boy was born. and she was afraid that he would lose all his memories and go mad. She kept him within her sight as often as possible, and when he went to school, she put a special watch on him so she could see how he was throughout the day.

            But one day, he didn't come home from school, and so she found the place where his watch said he was, but all she found was the watch itself, crushed and scratched. She called the police, and they looked for him, but he was nowhere t9 be found for the first week. Then, the mother, lying ill in bed, heard a scratching sound outside her window. On the windowsill, her son crouched, eyes like a wild animal's, skinnier than even her, and dragging jagged nails down the glass, with his teeth bared and dripping with frothy saliva.

            She screamed and scrambled further away from the window, to stand in the doorway, illness forgotten. Her rabid son opened the window, slowly, very slowly, and slipped his claw like fingers underneath it. He began to climb into the room, but the mother was paralyzed with fear.

            Then, as he fully entered the room, and the sunlight on his face disappeared, he froze, and gasped, then stumbled and put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

            "Mother." He said, hoarsely. "What's happened to me?" The mother took a step forward, toward him. She couldn't help herself. But he looked afraid, and he stepped back, away, his face coming into the sunlight again, and casting a shadow on the wall. His head jerked to the side, then jerked again, and rolled to look at her, and his eyes widened. Dirch hissed, and reached for the window. She took another step toward him, and he jumped out of the window.

            The mother cried out, and looked, but he had landed nimbly on the ground. Scampering away on all fours, he looked like some kind of humanoid beast, and the mother was frightened of her own son. But she had to help him somehow. Grabbing her phone from the bedside table, she wrapped her blanket around her and dashed down the stairs to chase him. As she ran, she dialed the police again.

            Dirch ran as fast as the wind, his muscles burning. He wanted food, and he wanted to rest. From the moment the sun rose, to the moment it set, he was running from place to place, stealing valuables, and murdering innocent people. He couldn't move a muscle. They moved on their own, of their own accord, and no matter how he struggled, his limbs still jerked away from him. Soon he came to the front of a store, and his reflection in the glass of the windows leered back at him. His lips moved, and his reflection's did the same, and he spoke, but they were not his words.

            "Dirch," hissed the voice that was his, but not his. "You've been very obedient, my young apprentice. One day, you'll be like me. A shadow, or a reflection. Merely something to replicate. But can you, like I have been teaching you, take control of what you're replicating? Why be controlled when you can control? Tell me, would you like to be freed to go be a shadow?" His head jerked to the side, to look at his shadow. "Let him speak."

            The pressure in Dirch's throat disappeared, and he panted, finally able to breathe properly again. "I... I don't know." The pressure reappeared. "Remember, that is the only way you'll be freed from your own shadow; to become another's."

            The pressure lifted. "I'll become a shadow." "Choose," said the reflection. "Choose and take." At that moment, Dirch's mother rounded the corner, limping, but quick all the same. "Dirch!" She bellowed, throwing herself at him. For a second, he looked at her with empty eyes. Hunger growled in his stomach, and exhaustion pounded his body, but he didn't notice, as he looked down at his mother, frozen mid leap. "I have chosen."

            The world around him shrunk, then swelled, and bended. He looked up, at his mother's shocked and pained face as she lay on the ground, arms outstretched. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet and stumbled to the wall of the store, looking around. As she turned to look at the store, he saw the reflection of his physical body, still there, even though he was tpgine, now his mother's shadow. It grinned at him, and he seized the power in the back of his mind, a mental image of his mother. With a last look at his fading reflection, and the shadow of a non existing person on the ground, he turned his mother, and together, they dashed away.

The End.

I wrote another short story, called The Bird. It's less weird. It's just about a young girl who wishes she were a bird, from the perspective of her mother. 

 

The Bird

            A long time ago, I loved a man, and I married him, but he didn’t have the same love for me as I did for him, and he left me for a woman he met at a bar. Seven months later, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She was everything to me, and I loved her more than anything else in the whole world. She had bright, watchful eyes, like a bird’s, and she was light as a feather, and as gentle and graceful as a butterfly. I named her Wren, because she reminded me of the small birds I so often saw outside my window during the warmer months. 

             As she grew up, she became more and more like a bird, and she stood tilted forward onto her toes, and her arms hovered out to the sides, so she always looked ready to run away at the slightest noise, or be blown away at a gust of wind. She had me cut her hair short, less than a three-inch length, and she was too shy to go to school. Instead, I homeschooled her, and she came to work with me. It was hard to make enough money to sustain the two of us, but we did it, and we never gave up. She developed an obsession over birds, and she studied them every moment of her free time, tracing pictures of their wings, and making little wooden sculptures of them. She loved to build, and draw, and carve, and most of her creations were bird related. When she was seven years old, she made a giant, wonderful kite that caught the wind, and soared higher than any other in the sky. How the children gasped when they saw the bright, colorful contraption rise higher and higher into the sky, swaying above all the other kites. 

            She would carry it carefully to the park on a windy day, and unravel the string. Then she would toss it into the air and sprint the other direction, making it snap taut in the air, and ascend steadily into the clouds like a bird, the curled blue ribbons fluttering like the feathers of a peacock’s tail. Wren added more to the kite every day, poring over it carefully, and once in a while whispering, “I wish I were a bird,” as if the kite had some magic power to grant her wishes. She muttered it under her breath over and over again, like a prayer, and she talked to the birds as they ate at the bird feeder, asking them about what it was like to fly. 

            For Halloween every year, she was a different type of bird, fluttering her fake wings with excitement as she skipped from house to house, her voice heightened to a chirp. When the neighbors asked what she was, she would tell them the name of the bird, and though they most often hadn’t even heard of the species, they always seemed interested in her explanation of it. She would tell them its bird calls, its eating habits, and its flying patterns. One day, she was flying her kite on an extra windy day, and the kite was higher than ever, violently thrashing, and pulling Wren this way and that, but she still had a huge delighted grin plastered on her face. A few times, it threatened to yank her off her feet, and I tried to snatch it from her, but she shook her head and beamed at me, then glanced at her kite, and I couldn’t take it from her. The wind finally mellowed, and it was a gentle breeze that moved her kite in the air. I took a deep, relieved breath and the tension drained from my body. Wren frowned up at the sky, and set her jaw in determination. It all happened so fast, I couldn’t process it in time. With strength surprising, especially for someone of her size and weight, she pulled on the kite and ran again, tiny muscles straining against the wind resistance, then leaped into the air. The string stretched tight, and she flew into the air.

            She shrieked in exhilaration and let go of the string with one hand, stretching it out to one side and leaning her head back. “Wren! Hold on!” I looked around in a panic, and started screaming for help. “Help! Someone! Help!” Wren was screaming too, but not out of fear, or a desire for help. She was screaming in happiness. I shielded my eyes from the sun and squinted up at her. She was gliding through the air, and the wind had picked up again, swinging her back and forth in the sky, in huge arches, while she held one hand out to the side, and her legs were straight, together behind her. The wind blew in her face, blowing her short hair around her dainty face, which was bright with excitement. Not once did she look down, or seem afraid, but she looked up instead, at the kite. The kite began to shiver in the air, and it fell like a stone, Wren falling too. Her hand opened, releasing it, and her tiny body was stiff and silent as she fell. 

            I gasped and rushed to catch her, but not in time, and she crashed to the ground, her limbs splayed in positions they never should have. “Wren!” I cried, and kneeled by her, gathering her up in my arms. She groaned with pain, and her eyes dimmed, the light, and the life draining out of them. I stroked her hair, trying to comfort her, but I was the one of us who needed the comfort. Not a tear marred her beautiful face, and there was still a faint smile on her face, contorted in pain as it was. 

 

            “Mother?” 

            “Yes?” 

            “Why can the birds fly, but we can’t?” 

            “Because…” I searched for an answer. “Because they know they can. You can fly too, you just need to believe you can. “ I choked back a sob as she weakly turned her head and stretched out a broken, shaking arm. 

            “Mother?”

            “Yes?”

            She looked at me, and as she left, she smiled. “I am flying, Mother.” 

 

The End. 

I got home from church an hour ago. There were two giant mosquitoes on the front door of the church having a little fun, if you know what I mean. Neither of them is going to die a virgin. Hahaha!

For lunch I had Thai food. SO GOOD. I don't know why I like Thai food so much, it just gives me a sense of overwhelming joy to be eating it. Yum!

I've been bad......

I downloaded Hyperbole and a Half, with the good, honest intention to just see what it is was about, and then leave it until I was done with the Wingfeather SAGA, buuuuuuuuuuuuut, I didn't really. I ended up going an hour before I grabbed my phone and started reading it, so now I'm reading the Wingfeather Saga and Hyperbole and a Half simultaneously. 

Sorry, not sorry.

I'm currently reading "North! Or be Eaten," and I'm really enjoying it. To be completely honest with you, I was hesitant to read the Wingfeather Saga, even when my friends kept telling me to read it, but so far I've been pleasantly surprised.

What should I read next, once I've finished the series?

I've been working on a short story, and I'm super nervous to share it, but I kind of want to know what you think. I haven't edited it or proofread it yet.

I hope you enjoy reading it (if you read it).

 

The Hunter

 

            When I was three, my mother died, and so my father and I became a team, just the two of us, against the world. We would pretend we were superheroes, and he would lift me up above his head, and spin me around, and I would laugh, and laugh, and scream in pure exhilaration. He was my best friend in the whole world, and I was his. I never went to school. My father taught me everything I needed to know: how to tie different kinds of knots, how to set snares and traps. We made cabbage stews, and cooked venison steaks over a fire. 

            It was during the summer of my seventh year that my father decided I was old enough to go hunting with him for the first time, and it was marvelous, until, of course, he shot an animal. I had been enjoying the peaceful walk through the woods, my father resting his gun on his shoulder, and my hands wrapped tight around my bird guide. But as soon as the first shot rang out, like thunder sounding from my father’s weapon, I had to clap my hands over my ears, dropping the book, and fell to the ground, crying out in terror. My scream matched that of the doe’s, and even when it was all over, the sound of our perfect, horrified harmony still seemed to ring, shrill, and hideous, but at the same time, beautiful. He didn’t take me hunting with him for a long time after that.

            The second time I went with him, I was reluctant, but I was excited, because I told myself I would be brave for my father, and maybe I would even shoot a deer of my own. I was thirteen years, and tall for my age, so tall that I reached my father’s ears, and he was the tallest person I knew, though that meant very little, considering the only people I knew were the people I saw at the small market I went to every week to buy vegetables. We hiked along the rapidly flowing river, but stayed away from it so we wouldn’t fall in. Fingering the long hunting rifle I held, I turned to my father. “Do you think there will be any good deer out today?” He grunted. “Um,” I said timidly. “If I see one, am I allowed to shoot at it?”

            “It’s a deer.” He shrugged. “That’s what they’re for. Now be quiet.” He was always like this when he was hunting: short tempered, and focused so hard on the task that he barely seemed to notice you were there. I nodded and looked at my gun, then held it up and pointed it at a tree. “Bam!” I cried, and jerked the gun. “Pow!” Jumping, I pivoted, and fell into the river. Immediately, the force of the current crashed into me, and I was dragged under the water, scraping my skin on stones and branches. Water filled my mouth, my nose, and I choked, trying to breathe. I forced my head above water, floundering desperately for a handhold. 

        “Father!” I gurgled, coughing and spluttering as I grabbed a tree root, but as he neared me, standing at the edge of the river, he eyed the water, and then shifted his gaze. I followed his eyes to where the river seemed to run into a sort of cavelike formation of rocks. I saw it in his eyes before it happened, and I whimpered, the entirety of my body’s strength draining from me at once. He backed away from the river’s edge, and shook his head, and my last finger slipped from the tree, and I was whisked away, into the waiting maw at the end of the river. The last thing I saw, as my head came back above the surface, was my father’s face, devoid of emotion, and darkness enfolded me. 

 

            There is no pain in death, no fear, just a strange emptiness, a void in one’s mind. There’s an almost pleasant feeling of calm, if letting go, and letting a great burden slide from one’s shoulders. Slowly, my eyes opened, and a great, bright light blinded me. Before me was the face of a beautiful doe, with large, dark eyes. She looked at me timidly, hesitantly, but she didn’t seem afraid. Just curious. Then, a drop of water fell onto her face, and she rippled. I gasped softly, and so did she. It turned my head, and her movements were identical to mine. Holding up a hand, I looked at it in horror, for all I saw was a hoof, waving as I waved my hand. 

            A dream, I reassured myself. But as I walked unsteadily toward the pond I had been lying next to, I realized I was walking on all fours, and my arms and legs were the same length, and it was all too real. I’m a deer! I thought, panic flooding through me, then I ran, leaping gracefully through the bushes, toward the trail, a winding path, made by my father and I by clearing plants away from the earth. I heard a faint click, and my ears twitch. Looking up, I saw a tall man poking a gun out from behind a tree, and pointing it at me. All thoughts disappeared, and my adrenaline took over. Scampering wildly through the trees, I looked for cover, but the thunder crashed, and I felt an excruciating burning in my right hind leg. My vision went red, and I stumbled, falling to the ground and trying to pull myself to my feet. The pain was so terrible I felt as if every inch of me was screaming in agony. A rustling warned me the hunter was coming, and I froze, pretending I was dead. 

            The seconds passed, each feeling longer than the last, until, finally, his large, rough hands began to lift me off the ground. With a wild cry, I turned and bit him on the arm. He dropped me, and I scrambled to my feet, reared up on my back legs, and with a last burst of strength, slammed my front hooves into his chest. He flew backward, the back of his head crashing into a large, mossy boulder with a deafening CRACK. Thick, dark blood streamed down the rock, and his eyes stared emptily into nowhere. Stumbling, I fell to the ground next to him and as my vision went black and my body was severed from my mind’s control, I caught a glimpse of the hunter’s face. My father. Screaming, I died. 

 

The End.

Hi! 

I'm trying really hard to convince someone I know to join the Shard. What are some things I could tell them that might convince them? 

Help, anyone?

Hello.

I'm going to have Thanksgiving dinner today because tomorrow is Canadian Thanksgiving. I'm also rereading The Fault In Our Stars for the millionth time! 

I'm thankful for Hazel and Gus! <3 <3 <3

I, umm, really don't know what to write in something like this...

So I suppose I'll just say my Canadian friends are coming to visit for Canadian Thanksgiving weekend today, and I'm super excited, since I haven't seen them for a few years since I moved to Pennsylvania. 
 

And, umm.... Bye?