This is what I must keep telling myself, lest I snap, and commit ten murders. Well, nine, because I can’t kill a baby in good conscious. My family is full of freaks. And not cool ones, like the Osmonds or Osbornes. But genuinely freaky. I don’t even know how to explain it. Wow. I started this post in first period. Here it is, 20 minutes before school ends, and it’s still not done. Cool beans. Anywho, I can’t remember what the point of this post was, so I’m giving it a new one. I know exactly what circumstances my child most be born due to. She will be conceived on Johnny Depp’s birthday, which means she’ll be born in march, and I’m holding her in until march 30th, when Van Gogh, Eric Clapton, Robbie Coltran, M.C. Hammer, Celine Dion, Norah Jones, and Jamie H were also born, at 6:31 am, like me. And she will weigh 7lbs, 11oz., like my cousin, who isn’t fat, but isn’t stick thin, either. And she’ll have green eyes. And curly hair. And freckles. And my skin color, which I think is a good one, because I rarely burn, but I’m obviously not pale, either. And she will be taller then 5 foot 2, I swear it! And these requirements are part of why I will never have kids. Wow… Today’s just a really off day. Sorry guys.