headcanon: headcanons are cliched

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I stalked up to the hotel room, furiously furiousing. This was - no. This was no. My own sister had left me! For - for - no. I didn't know what for. I could only assume it was a trivial reason, like my gassy habits or her desire to be able to freely eat as much paper as she wanted. This was terrible. Downright no.

"When will you learn that your actions have consequences, Deanna?" I asked, mostly to myself, despite the fact that I was not Deanna - rather, Samantha. "What a tragedy. What a - no. A no."

I flopped down on my bed, once again staring at the ceiling. This had been a terrible Wednesday. And a terrible Tuesdays before that. It was like everywhere I went, my life turned into a bigger tragedy than it already was. Tragic.

I decided the best course of action would be to head out and see if I could track her down. I checked the hotel room despondently, looking for anything (besides my will to live) that I might have left behind.

I found it in the last place I checked. Not my will to live - I still have yet to find that - but a note from my sister.

Samantha, it read.

Sorry for taking off like a bat out of hell. It really hits my spot to have to leave like this, but you know what they say. Mony a mickle maks a muckle. Ah, to be young and foolish and free of consequences like you are. I hope that in my absence, your heart will go on, and even grow fonder. It'd be a load off my mind if you'd consider taking the high road, no matter how high the cost. Go off to college. There is more than one way to skin a cat, but there's a sucker born every minute. Always remember that you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and lawyer than you think. You make a better door than a window. Go after your dreams. And remember, as I've said many times before: MONY A MICKLE MAKS A MUCKLE, Sami. Luv y'all.

Your gold in them thar hills,

~~~~DEA~~~~

I stared in disbelief at the note. What did this mean? How could she have done this? She misused so many cliches! She spelled her own name wrong!

Furiated at her grammar, I tilted my head to the ceiling-covered sky and shrieked a primal, offended, misspelled shriek. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE643EEEEREWEEEEEEEEQEWQEEEEEEEEEEEEEEQUEEREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE3576EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE683EEEEEGAYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE2572EEEEEEE2346ELESBIANEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE46324EEEEEEEEEEEE325EBIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE5637EEPANEEEEEEEEEEEEACEEEEqtq7452EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETRANSREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE234EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE3472EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE7EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEe!"

There were two things I knew for sure. One, Bertha and Ernesta were lesbians. Two, my sister sucked at grammar. Three, I sucked at math, and four, I had to find her.

And so find her I set out to do.

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It was early in the morning, or perhaps very late at night, or perhaps at some intermediate time in the afternoon, when I stepped into a car dealership in Moron Go Valley, California. It was home to a number of curiosities, including a cactus dealership and a painted sign announcing the end of the world. The most important part, por supuesto et bien sur, was a car dealership dealing classic cars that needed dealing. I'd taken the bus from San Jose, and had walked all the way here from the inconveniently-placed bus stop that stood immediately next to the Cactus Mart.

"Heya, darlin'," drawled a drawling dealer drawlingly. "Welcome to Texas."

"Sir, this is California."

"You one of them round-Earthers?" asked the dealer. "Them round-Earthers, saying Moron Go is in California."

"Sir, I looked at Goggle Maps. We're in California."

"I live here! This is Texas!"

"Okay, fine, whatever," I okay-fine-whatevered. The dealer was a hideous, graying man who looked like the kind of guy who believes he lives in Texas when, in reality, he does not. "Anywho, I need a car."

"A car?"

"A car."

"In town?"

"Yes, in town! Are you insane?"

"Then why do we have to be the ones?"

"BECAUSE IT'S THEEEE CAR! I. NEED. A. FREAKING! CAR!"

"All right, ma'am, I'm going to need you to calm down," he said. While he was busy trying to get me to calm down, I snagged the first pair of car keys I found on his desk and ran.

The car was a hideous white van with fake rust marks and a Ghostbusters symbol painted on the side. I did not want to drive it, but it didn't really seem like I had many other options. I had to find the Deanna, and this van was the only vehicle up to the job.

Well, it was the only one I had the keys for.

And, as they all say:

Mony a mickle maks a muckle.

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A/N

HAY YAL! So ixcited to be back writing LADYCHESTERS! I hope you guys love this new """season""" as much as I do so far! I totally plan ahead a lot and make nothing up as I go! All planed! totasly!#!3521!1!gay!

LUV Y'ALL!

SO MUCH!1

LClover67