Yes, random middle American teenage girl, your little corner of the virtual world has inspired me to consider trepanation with antique dinnerware, and the results will certainly not be pretty. But, I suppose it's partly my own fault. I did purposely click on the link to your site that popped up as a search result from an engine that is usually a quite reliable purveyor of quality goods. I should have been warned by your mile-long URL and by the fact that a tinny, MIDI version of "Hit Me Baby One More Time" began tinkling merrily from my speakers while I waited for your seemingly endless animated gifs of American flags and fuzzy bunnies to load. I should have been warned the instant I saw that every single word on your page was either in CAPS or hot pink or flashing spastically. I should have felt the willies creeping up my spine when I saw that my inadvertant visit had finally boosted your counter higher than 50. But no, I had to venture on, and in the process I discovered that 75% of your links were dead, and that the remaining 25% (and that was just one link, my dear) led simply into the hell known as your guestbook, where I delved into half a dozen entries from your boyfriend ( I believe you call him "Josh, the best bf ever!!!) most of which were remarkably clever and heartfelt odes to your, ahem, nether regions . In short, o anonymous pre-pubescent one, your homepage is a cul-de-sac on the information superhighway: only one way in, and only one way out, and as for me, I'm off to the operating room.