Ohayou! I s'pose you want ta know some stuff about me.

Name: you can just call me Kinokiita.

Gender: female

Height: almost over 5ft. 2 in.

Weight: about 117 lbs.

Age: i'm a freshman in high school.

Live in: imagination land.

Favorite color: black, blood crimson, dark blues and purples- glaring bright colors seriously hurting on the eyes.

Random info: It annoys me when an author doesn't say their gender. No clue why.

I'm a pentacostal Christian. Yeah. We swing from chandeliers and jump the pews during service- not. but that would be fun. XP

I absolutely LOVE to read. If I get a really good book, I don't care if it's the apocalypse, I ain't putting it down.

Ever since I was little, when I walk up the stairs, any stairs at all, I automatically count my footsteps. Don't ask me why, I just do.

Also, if I do one thing on one side, I have the strangest feeling that I need to do it on the other side. Like on a checkered tile floor, if I step on a black tile with my right foot, the left side of my body feels colder than my right until I step on a black tile with my left foot. Kinda OCD, huh?

"If you believe in God, copy-and-paste blah blah blah..." So what? What does believing in God mean? Lots of people, Christian and non-Christian believe He exists. Even demons "believe in God." How are you different? Well, me- I don't merely believe in Him...I TRUST in Him. I don't just "believe in God"...I believe in JESUS! I believe He is the ONLY Way, the ONLY Truth and the ONLY Life and without Him there is no salvation! If you believe in Jesus and have His Joy in your heart, don't just copy-and-paste this into your profile...SHOW IT!

We learn in two ways: by reading and by hanging out with smarter people.

Nothing great is ever achieved without enthusiasm.

Obstacles are great incentives.

The more you say the less people remember.

Peter McWiliams: Everyone thinks they can be a writer. Most people don't understand what's involved. The real writers persevere. The ones that don't either don't have enough fortitude and they probably wouldn't succeed anyway, or they fall in love with the glamour of writing as opposed to the writing of writing.

Robert Benchley: It took me fifteen years to discover that I had no talent for writing, but I couldn't give it up because by that time I was too famous.

Sidney Sheldon: A blank piece of paper is God's way of telling us how hard it to be God.

my favorite- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.: Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.

That's kinda how I feel about Christianity. Aristotle once said, "If I see it, I'll believe it." But I think it should be "If I believe it, I'll see it." It's easy to believe if you saw it. It takes guts to have real faith.

If you have a tendency to talk to yourself, copy and paste this into your profile.

Copy and paste this to your profile if you believe flames are just a boring waste of time to read! Anyways the flamers just show that they have no life or class whatsoever...

If you hate cigarettes/drugs/child abuse/abortion, copy and paste this into your profile.

65 percent of Teenagers spend more time watching TV rather then reading. If you are part of the 35 percent who read more that watch TV then cut and paste this to your Profile.

If you have a very vivid imagination, paste this in your profile.

A teenage girl about 17 named Diane had gone to visit some friends one evening and time passed quickly as each shared their various experiences of the past year. She ended up staying longer than planned, and had to walk home alone. She wasn't afraid because it was a small town and she lived only a few blocks away.

As she walked along under the tall elm trees, Diane asked God to keep her safe from harm and danger. When she reached the alley, which was a short cut to her house, she decided to take it. However, halfway down the alley she noticed a man standing at the end as though he were waiting for her. She became uneasy and began to pray, asking for God's protection. Instantly a comforting feeling of quietness and security wrapped round her, she felt as though someone was walking with her. When she reached the end of the alley, she walked right past the man and arrived home safely.

The following day, she read in the newspaper that a young girl had been raped in the same alley just twenty minutes after she had been there. Feeling overwhelmed by this tragedy and the fact that it could have been her, she began to weep. Thanking the Lord for her safety and to help this young woman, she decided to go to the police station. She felt she could recognize the man, so she told them her story. The police asked her if she would be willing to look at a lineup to see if she could identify him. She agreed and immediately pointed out the man she had seen in the alley the night before. When the man was told he had been identified, he immediately broke down and confessed. The officer thanked Diane for her bravery and asked if there was anything they could do for her. She asked if they would ask the man one question. Diane was curious as to why he had not attacked her. When the policeman asked him, he answered, "Because she wasn't alone. She had two tall men walking on either side of her." Amazingly, whether you believe or not, you're never alone. Did you know that 98 of teenagers will not stand up for God, and 93 of the people that read this won't repost it?

Repost this if you truly believe in God.

PS: God is always there in your heart and loves you no matter what,
and if you stand up for him he will stand up for you.

A professor was teaching a class of students about logic. He was trying to prove that there was no God. "Has anyone in this class seen God?" He asked. No one answered. "Has anyone in this class touched God?" Still, no answer. "Then that proves it." The professor concluded. "There simply is no God!" Suddenly, a student stood up. "Has anyone in this class seen the professor's brain?" He said. No one answered. "Has anyone in this class touched the professor's brain?" Again, no answer. "Then that proves it." The student said. "Our professor simply has no brain!"

Jesus had no servants, yet they called him Master...

He had no degree, yet they called him Teacher...

He had no medicine, yet they called him Healer...

He had no army, yet kings feared him...

He won no military battles, yet he conquered the World...

He committed no crime, yet they crucified Him...

He was buried in a tomb, yet He lives today

If you feel honored to serve such a leader who loves us,

If you believe in the one true God: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

then copy and paste this in your profile.

There's nothing wrong with arguing with yourself. It's when you argue with yourself and LOSE when it's weird. If you agree, copy this and put it in your profile.

If you're putting this in your profile only for entertainment purposes and to make your profile longer than it already is because that's just plain awesome, copy and paste this into your profile to make it longer than it already is by copying and pasting this into the profile you are trying to make longer and yes, I am completely aware that I'm saying all this to make this copy and paste a hell of a lot longer than it has to be, I'm just smart like that.

This little boy’s name was Peter Connelly, though for a long time the British media referred to him as “Baby P.” This was to protect the identities of the people who hurt him. Peter’s story is one of the saddest thing I have ever heard.

Peter was born in London on March 1, 2006. His mother’s name was Tracey Connelly, and Peter was her fourth child and first boy.

A few months later, Peter’s biological father abandoned the family. The reason – or so it’s said – was that his chosen wife and mother of his children liked to meet men in bars. So he left. A few months after that, the mother’s boyfriend moved in. His name is Steven Barker. An admirer of Nazis. Known to torture small animals.

Let us be precise: Steven Barker was the cohabitating boyfriend of Peter’s mother. And he hated Peter. He had to, based on what he did to him.

Peter was seven moths old the first time a doctor noticed his injuries. His mother said he fell down the stairs. Social Services watched her after that. Yep, that’s what they did: they watched and watched and watched.

Peter was taken away from Tracey over the Christmas holiday of 2006, on the suspicion that he was being abused, but she got him back in January. And Social Services kept on watching.

Soon after this, Steven Barker’s brother, Jason Owen, moved in. Now, picture it: He moved in with Steven Barker, Tracey Connelly, Peter, and Peter’s three sisters. And along with him came his three children, an underage girlfriend, a Rottweiler and a pet snake. And they all lived here.

Are you getting the picture? Social Services kept watching. They visited Tracey. They saw Peter.

Sixty times. They visited Tracey at her house. Sixty times in seven months. And for all their watching, they never knew that eleven people were living in that squalid house. There were other things, too, that they didn’t see. Or pretended not to. The face of a cherub with beautiful blue eyes and blond baby curls. It hurts to look at his pictures.

Little Peter Connelly lived for a short while on earth, and while he lived he never knew safety or love or gentleness or mercy. No, he did not know about those things. For Peter, existence meant neglect, indifference, pain and violence. And what does a baby know, really? He probably thought that’s all life was.

Peter was too young to speak, and for as beautiful as he was, he did not hold his mother’s interest. Tracey Connelly was absorbed in other business, really, and couldn’t bother much with Peter. There was so much to do. There was sleeping, relaxing, sitting down, smoking, socializing on the internet. Languishing in her boredom. Thinking about herself. These things take a lot of time, after all, and there’s only so many hours in a day. And then, I’m sure it must have been very stressful having Social Services watching all the time, visiting the house all the time.

And while Tracey Connelly entertained herself with her activities, Steven Barker also entertained himself. He threw little Peter around like a rag doll. He spun Peter around on a stool until he fell off and hit his head, and then put him back on and spun him again. He trained Peter to obey like a dog, with a snap of his fingers. And speaking of dogs, he used Peter to train the Rottweiler that lived in the house. Under that angelic blond hair, Peter had bite marks on his head; it is not known whether these marks were human or canine. That’s right: as part of training the Rottweiler, either Steven Barker or the dog bit Peter on the head.

Steven Barker’s brother, Jason Owen, participated in some of this abuse.

Have you had enough yet? There’s more. Of course there is.

Steven Barker compressed Peter’s windpipe, held for a while, and finally let go. He pinched Peter’s fingernails and toenails until they turned black. He pulled out at least one of the baby’s fingernails with pliers. He cut off at least one of the baby’s fingertips with a knife. One of Peter’s ears was partially torn off. Social Services, meanwhile, kept watching. Steven Barker also broke several of Peter’s ribs. Then he broke Peter’s back. It takes a lot of force to break a back. A lot. Force equivalent to a car accident, or a fall from a very high place.

Read that again: Steven Barker broke Peter’s back. This happened near the end, and Peter did not walk unaided again. When asked whether she ever realized that her son was partially paralyzed, Tracey Connelly said that she hadn’t noticed. Nope, she did not notice. He lay down just fine in his bed, she said, and he sat just fine where she put him.

By this time, Peter’s hair had been shaved off. This was because of the scabs on his head. And the lice. Social Services watched and watched. Tracey Connelly was smearing her son’s face with chocolate now, to hide the bruises. I’m sure she thought this was very clever.

Peter went to the hospital. He went there with a broken back and eight broken ribs. But he was cranky. How could the doctor examine such a cranky child? She could not! She sent him home.

At home Peter was cranky. He lay alone in his crib. He cried and he cried. Peter was seventeen months old. Have you seen a child this age sobbing? The pouty lips, the little gasps, the tears? In an adult, the normal response to this is compassion. The urge to give comfort – that is the normal response. That was not Steven Barker’s response.

He went into Peter’s room and closed the door. Then he punched Peter in the face. Punched him so hard, in fact, that he removed skin from the baby’s lips and tongue and knocked out a tooth. Peter went quiet.

It was 11:30 on the following morning before Tracey Connelly called for an ambulance. By then Peter’s body was cold and blue, dead already for several hours.

That was August 3, 2007. Only four days after the last visit from Social Services.

If I had a time machine, some way to rescue Peter from that hellish house, I would go there now. And even though I never knew little Peter Connelly, never heard of him until after his death, and (ironically) would not have heard of him if not for his death, still…

Peter, even though I am still very young myself, I would very gladly and willingly be your mommy.

I know that a lot of women young and old, have expressed this same feeling.

Please Help to stop child abuse!
Post this on your profile to show you care and help stop child abuse.

Did you know that if someone voted for President Obama not because they agreed with his values, but because his skin is dark that that is a kind of racism? Please make fair judgements. If you truely agree with Democratic views, then vote that way. Don't do it because it's what everybody's doing and you'll be called closed-minded and racist if you don't. Not being rasist is having an unbiased attitude towards the color of a person's skin, no matter if it's for a negative reason or positive. Don't bend to peer pressure. Have your own opinion.

I am the girl...that doesn't go to school dances, or games, and when I do go, I stand in a corner quietly. I am the girl that spends most of her free time reading, writing, or doing other activities that most teenagers wouldn't call normal. I am the girl that people call weird either behind my back or to my face. I am the girl that doesn't spend all her time on MySpace, or talking to a girlfriend on a cellphone or regular phone. I am the girl that hasn't been asked out, ever. I am the girl that has stopped to stare at the sky and repeatedly feels her heart break for those less fortunate in life.

But I am also the girl who knows and is proud to be who she is, doesn't care if people call her weird (it's a compliment), who loves reading and writing and doing the things that no one seems to have the time to do any more, who loves and is obsessed with FanFiction, who can express herself better with words than anything else, and knows the importance of the little things.

Copy and Paste this onto your account if you are anything like me, so the girls who are unique can know in their weakest times that they are different, but not alone.

If you think Writer's Block seriously sucks, copy and paste this into your profile.

I'm working on my first fanfic. Please check it out.

I have started a side story, too. Tell me what you think.

Ja ne.