Prepositions are not things to end sentences with.

I now have trouble writing or saying sentences that end in prepositions. It just feels wrong in

my head. I have to write things correctly. Is this a good or a bad thing? Discuss.

On the other hand, I keep confusing homophones like they're and their. I feel stupid and

unworthy and horrible for about a second after I do it. Then I forget about it.

The temperature recently has reached over ninety degrees. This is unacceptable weather of the kind that will not be allowed in northern Canada when I move there. My dear family was stuck in the basement all day. It was boring down there, and it was boring and hot upstairs. I was convinced that Cassee was going to get heatstroke.

Today I made some beautiful art out of Mod Podge (well, that stuff. I don't know how to spell it), paper, duct tape, scissors with funny edges, and these awesome paintbrush/markers. Mother does not seem to appreciation my genius artwork. I can't imagine why. She just called it a collage, when anyone can see that it is obviously an abstract composition.

Ah, duct tape. It is useful for so many things, such as fixing ducts, holding together the fracturing bits of a failing relationship, and making clothing. Many people make prom dresses out of duct tape. I think this is mainly because of the Stuck at Prom contest that offers three thousand dollars worth of scholarship money to the winners, as well as money to the school that held the prom.

Look at the winners. Their dresses and tuxes are crazily elaborate. I don't even want to think about how long it took to make those. Or how much duct tape.

Tape.

Today, I will finish my hundredth book this summer. This is a frightening thought, and I don't know why. I've read thousands of books in my life, have never known which one was 500th or 666th or 729th, and have never cared. But now that I'm counting, it means something. I have a goal. I am working toward it. I have a record of ninety-six books I've read, and I can look back at them and remember.

Mother says I should keep writing down what I read after I hit a hundred. I've never done that before. I don't think I have the ability to keep track of these things. I always had to write up my stupid practice logs for band the morning they were due because I didn't write down when I practiced. Oh well. At least I actually told the truth about when I practiced, unlike some people.

Speaking of band, I quit. Spiffy is calling me a quitter now. So is Liss, but Liss just likes to call me things to annoy me. She spent the entire weekend calling me either Little Libsies or crotchety old woman.

We had a thrilling Girl Scout weekend, probably our last one ever. One of our members is thinking about giving up Girl Scouts. In most troops, I think that would be okay, but when you only have four members, a quarter of your troop leaving is a lot. Also, we don't do many things that you have to be a Girl Scout to do, like earning badges or going to Girl Scout camps. We just sort of meet and gossip and sell cookies outside Scrapbook Haven.

Not that I don't love my troop. I do. I love them more than I love nail polish and Gmail combined. Who else sings new lyrics to "You Belong With Me" in A&W or plays Apples to Apples in the car with Lego Building Blocks winning Chewy and Learning Spanish for Sticky? No one I know.

Anyway, we went on holiday up North. The drive was five hours of insane Apples to Apples and general craziness. I managed to spill several different food items on myself. Zoe's Aunt Franny kindly allowed us to stay in her boathouse, which was a shack by the water decorated with baskets, plastic furniture, and a bunch of little statues and things, which Liss named. The best part was a loft with a lot of old trunks and a vacuum on it.

We tried to catch fish in Crystal Lake for ages, but it didn't work too well because we were afraid to get swimmer's itch from the water. Finally, Anna got tired of that and sat down in the water to catch a fish. We also went swimming in Lake Michigan. On one side of a giant pier, the water was the color of puke. Liss has some other, ruder names for it. On the other side, it was clear and nice. We swam on both sides, and there was absolutely no difference.

What else did we do? That was about it. I read Liss's depressing book (Catching Fire, Suzanne Collins, #95. It's not actually out yet, but she had an ARC) and played mancala in rounds for at least an hour. Everyone called me OCD because I rearranged the pieces so they were with other pieces of the same color. Then they all started arranging them like that. OCD is not contagious, you know.

The weekend was really fab and stuff, but I have realized something shocking. Or, well, really not so shocking. This epiphany came to me while I was floating down a river on a tube, holding onto Liss's tube so she didn't float away from me.

I don't think I'll ever be the kind of person who can spend a lot of time around other people and not lock myself in my room for a while afterwards. I mean, that's a little bit exaggerated, but private people such as myself have trouble living in a shack with six other people who aren't related to me for long. I know some of you would have trouble with it, dear readers. Admit it. You're not all bubbly, cheerful, extroverted types.

That's all I have to say. My next post, whenever it may appear, will be at least partly about my feelings toward my hundredth book. It might even include my hundred book list if I don't get lazy about typing it.

I have to go move on with my exciting life now by going to the dentist and giving up Remi to the child.

Kornerupine.

I don't know what it is, either.

Today I sold Girl Scout cookies. This is because I am a Girl Scout. It would be more than a little strange if I wasn't a Girl Scout but I was selling their cookies. Our cookie booth was really not that exciting. We sold about four cases, which is forty-something boxes, and we ran out of a couple kinds. We also had to keep explaining to people about how we switched bakers and that's why the names are different and everything tastes nasty. At least there weren't rival scouts at Kroger again. Last time there were these random other chicks who actually had signs and uniforms. Unlike us; we had a sign Zoe and I made in five minutes and none of us have uniforms.

Liss was wearing shorts and flip-flops like she hadn't noticed it's still March. Or mars, as they say in la belle France. As we were walking to the store, Mother said, "There's a wrongness to that." She meant Liss's outfit.

After selling, we partied in my basement and then went to a writing workshop. I was kind of nervous about going. I mean, I wasn't too worried about the writing part of it. Obviously I write, and obviously I write stuff that other people read. It was the whole there are going to be people I've never met and possibly people I have met thing that worried me. I am not a people person. I am a what are these people doing in my bubble? person.

The person-in-charge had us stand in a circle and introduce ourselves. Then, after stating our name and business ("I am Libby. I am at this place because I am.") we told a melodramatic story about something that had happened that week. I talked about my freezing up in front of the entire class, sadly, not very melodramatically. I'm not repeating that story because I wrote it all down two days ago. Also, it's such a scarring memory that I prefer not to bring it up. Okay, no.

She told us all about what melodrama is. It seems to be pretty much a style of drama where there's a damsel in distress, a slimy-looking villain (sometimes with a hunchbacked, idiot henchman), and a heroic hero (sometimes with an idiot best friend for comic relief). It makes no sense at all, and the characters all talk funny. I did not sign up for this class, by the way. I wanted to do the journalism one.

She warned us (in a whisper, I have no idea why) that it can be kind of sexist, and also that since we were all girls, some of us would end up acting out male roles. Liss said (not in a whisper) that I was a man.

Do you know how many times a day I have to tell people that I'm not a man? At least once. They all find it incredibly amusing to call me a man. It's not, people. I am not a man! I don't even look like a man. I really don't.

We ended up writing and performing a short sketch. I ended up playing a man. But I was a very fabulous man named Bivouac de Blacktop, and I totally didn't get stage fright and puke in the corner. I barely even entertained the possibility for more than a minute. You can go read our script on Liss's blog, which I think I have a link to in the corner. I will just mention that we ended with a unison "FOR ENGLAND!" and put our fists in the air, for absolutely no reason. It was my idea.

Our cat, Cassee, doesn't like to eat people food. We've (my family, trying to find food she likes to eat) tried feeding her cream cheese, cooked eggs, milk, cheese, tuna, and chicken, but she won't eat it. I've ( me being an idiot) tried feeding her veggie sausage, cereal, string, cookies, and ice cream. She won't eat those, either. I was wandering the house with a half-eaten, cold pancake dangling out of my mouth, and I suddenly decided to feed it to the cat. I broke off a little piece, put it on my hand, and held it out to her.

She ate it. I have a pancake-eating cat. I'm so happy!

Two days ago, I said that I suspect the child is a rebel sympathizer. I now have proof, even more than just his refusal to disclose the location of the rebel base. He wouldn't let me have the good sword (there are two foam swords in the house, one that sucks and one that doesn't). I asked how I was supposed to crush rebels without a sword. He said he didn't want me to defeat rebels. Rebel sympathizer! His friend, the vamp, didn't believe me, but it's true.

The lottery for Commie High is tomorrow. Commie High is really called Community High, but I like to affectionately call it Commie. Liss was very surprised that I wanted to go there, as I had spent all of math class once making fun of it. It's the funky school here. Only a quarter of the people who want to go there get to because it's so small, so they have a random lottery system. I really, really want to get in, but I might not. So. Panic central. Oh well. My life will go on if I don't get to go to school with the commies.

Maybe.

I will live a sad, miserable existance, but I will live. I am strong!

Except not really.

Darn you! Read my forkin' blog!

Spiffy, for some reason, thinks I have no phone skills. I don't know where she got that idea...

This is a normal ride-home-from-school phone call to Mother:

"Darn you! Darrrrrrnnnn yoooooou! Pick up the forkin' phone! Darn you! Oh, hello, this is John S.  McCain speaking. Ha ha ha, no, it's me, Libby, your daughter. Not your son, 'cause I'm not a man. No, I'm not! Gosh! Anyway, I'm in the car with, like, five people and Pascale's mom is driving me home because it would be weird if she didn't. But then Pascale had this idea, she was like, 'Oh my gosh!' and we were like 'Oh your gosh what?' and she was like, 'Y'all should hang with me!' and we were like, 'That's rockin', dude!' Yeah, that was how it went. So can I? Hang with Pascale and people?"

See, that's perfectly normal.

I had my Girl Scouts over last night. And the cousin. She's not one of my girl scouts, but she's a girl scout and she's my cousin, so it works. She and Liss informed me that they always keep a tab up on their computers with my blog on it, which I find a little creepy. If I was going to say who my biggest fans are, it would be you guys. I'm basking in your slightly stalkerish adoration over here.

Both of them (Liss and Audrey) told me no less than five times that I was "Hitler incarnate." They also accused me of wanting to "kill all non-Aryans" and told me that "you should start in America because we have a lot of people who aren't blonde and blue-eyed." Since I know you have a tab up and are reading this, I'm going to talk to you two. Everyone else who isn't either of them, look away now and don't look back until I tell you to. This paragraph does not concern you.

To Audrey and Liss: I have told you several times to stop it. I find it extremely offensive that you would even compare me to Hitler. I am the person who cried so hard she had to leave the room when our teacher taught about the Holocaust. There is a difference between liking blonde hair and wanting to kill people who aren't blonde. I have no problem with any hair color; I just like blonde more. Hitler was a horrible person. The Holocaust was a horrible thing. I don't even like bringing it up in conversation, much less being accused of wanting to do something like that. End of rant. Please, shut up.

You can look now. I should probably have written this on my list yesterday (I told you it would grow!):

• Blondes

I spent about ten minutes this morning cleaning up after all y'all. More than half of that was spent sorting the game cards into six equal piles and making sure they were all facing the same way. I'm not OCD! Kimchi Kat kept getting in the way by sitting in the box and rubbing her little kitty face on the cards while I was trying to sort them. I still love her very much, though. She was creeped out by everyone sleeping in the basement. The poor kitty had no idea what to do.

Also last night, I allowed Liss to braid my hair into ten different little braids. She was laughing at me because I divided my hair into sections before I brushed it. It's not my fault I have a lot of hair. It comes naturally. I slept with it like that and they called me Medusa all night long...I'm crying here. Show some sympathy. And then when I took it out, it was all funky. Yes, that's how it was. All funky. I am not going to describe what that means.

We tried to watch Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, but certain people laughing their heads off on Facebook caused Liss to pause every few seconds. Then she started saying "I luv ya, man!" every time Harry was in the vicinity of a male character, just because she could really imagine him saying that. Half an hour into the movie, after everyone had finally migrated over in front of the television, it skipped back to the beginning.

Our movie-viewing was obviously doomed from the start.

I could probably think of a few more things to write about, but I don't feel like it.

I really don't want to go back to school tomorrow. I haven't done much over break, and I like it that way. I'd almost rather have the knowledge that I could do something than actually do it. Plus, school is so...educational. I'm not looking forward to homework, classes, or the Walk of Shame every morning. Oh, or band...I haven't practiced since I left the house Friday last week. Fork.

Break really is a break, you know? Like someone hit the pause button on my life and let me have a while to sleep it off, but they're going to hit play again tomorrow and expect me to me ready. I don't want to play...

I'm using a lot of ellipses and also not making sense to myself.