If you're reading this. Three words.

I miss you.

Geez. I seriously miss you.

Just pluck me from my natural habitat and it takes, hmmm, I would say a whole of 5 seconds for me to realize just how great my friends and family are. Just how lucky I am to have you. And how rare it is to truly be known. I always seem to forget just how great you are.

So the internet situation is pretty much impossible here. I'll be lucky to have a half hour time slot once a week. Sad. This (obviously) is not a sufficient amount of time for me to write all the emails I so desperately want to write. So I will turn to letter writing. Which is not so disappointing. It's more personal, you know? And it will be fun to create little bits for you all. This is actually a much better idea than emails, I can tell already. So please, right this very moment send me an email (leahmicheleberry@gmail.com) with your home address. Do it. I like you and would like to be pen pals.

I was thinking. It's probably, no, most definitely a good thing that I didn't have the internet available to me until this moment. Any earlier and you would have had to endure a wallowy self-pitying unhappy Leah. Not pretty. Thankfully it is only the pages of my journal that have had to endure such abuse these past few days. This abuse comes in many forms. Most commonly in bitter self-absorbed teenage angst: "Oh no one understands me." or "I don't relate to anyone here." My pencil has also written in the dramatic emotional state reminiscent, of say, everyone's favorite emo band - Dashboard Confessional: "Woe to me." and "I'm so disappointed." Weep weep weep. What I feel the worst about, oh my poor poor journal, are the long angry unwarranted rants. Me on my high horse articulating exactly how I feel about this house, these people and my dumb choice to come here. I am so glad I had no choice but to spare you of all this nonsense.

And now, at 730am on Saturday when I finally have some computer time, I can tell you I am doing alright. Thanks to Thursday really. I am doing alright. Thursdays are our day off. I forced myself to be social (a new personal mandate after several days of self-inflicted pouty isolation) and went with a few girls into town. And what do you know? It ended up being a great day - filled with all of the things I love most. Here's a rundown of the day that managed to pull me out of my brooding:

Throughout the day we walked and walked and walked. For miles and miles and miles. A favorite past time of mine. We went through green countryside and down muddy paths that were enclosed by trees. We passed quaint English cottages and beautiful old houses. We picked fresh blackberries all along the way.

In town we sat and chatted over coffee in a tiny and charming cafe.

We wandered through a narrow alleyway where a small signless window filled with guitars and album covers caught our eye. We opened the small door and were immediately greeted by tons of old records and used cd's. We dug through this small gem of a store and made friends with the man behind the counter. The same man who was passionately lecturing an old English gentleman about how he can't believe that he doesn't own such and such a record as it is one of the greatest rock records ever produced and how it is essential to any collection. Eavesdropping on this conversation all I kept thinking was, "high fidelity anyone? anyone?"

Then. As if that wasn't enough. We stumbled across the gold-mine. A Huge used bookstore. This baby had books, pictures, old prints, postcards and maps stacked from floor to ceiling. It was set up like some sort of labrynth with narrow halls and secret doors that led to more and more rooms. It was overwhelming. And I was in heaven.

It is amazing, silly really, how much of an affect these small pleasures have had on my outlook. I simply feel as if I now know I will survive here. I will always have that bookstore and record shop to flee to when I need an escape or cheering.

My time is up. Email me your address. Do it.