And punctuation and upper/lower case. They're real things.

Idontknowwhattheissueiswithparagraphsandpunctuation

Mean woman. Personally, I love my run-on sentences. I enjoy a rather freeform manner of writing which tends to be a bit slap-dash. I choose to write as I speak with many dashes/dots and parenthetical references. So, Julie, it might be excruciatingly annoying to read my posts since they rarely meet decent grammar rules.

However, I appreciate "white space" in a page or screen. My son has dyslexia and it was a challenge to teach him to track and translate. I learned the value of "white space."

Ironically, not 3 posts after your request for basic grammar is a blog filled with a block of verbal spewing. Diarrhea of expressive fingers? No clue what the correct term should be in this matter.

Mine tends to be too much Cabernet w/o using the (RETURN) key.

amen, julie. the posts with no paragraphs - i groan when i see them and usually just click elsewhere.

This post should be a sticky, so all newbies (and some oldies) can see it!

My pet peeve is rants that sounds extra ranty and cray cray because they read like this the person doesn't really organize thoughts they just keep going about how BM doesn't respect their DH and the skids need to be taken from BM but they don't know if they should go to court and try to get custody because they dont wanna deal with the drama but the kids are happier in their home so maybe they should but BM keeps calling DH and then DH listens to BM and then he doesn't want to go to court but the skids aren't doing well in school with BM so if DH gets the skids it will be better for the skids but I know it isnt my business to get involved.

Stuff like that.

Julie, here's some light reading for you so you can brush up on your single paragraph reading!
Two households, both alike in dignity,In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.From forth the fatal loins of these two foesA pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;Whose misadventured piteous overthrowsDo with their death bury their parents' strife.The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,And the continuance of their parents' rage,Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;The which if you with patient ears attend,What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.Do you quarrel, sir?Quarrel sir! no, sir.If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.No better.Well, sir.Say 'better:' here comes one of my master's kinsmen.Yes, better, sir.You lie.draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.Part, fools!Put up your swords; you know not what you do.Beats down their swords What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,Or manage it to part these men with me.What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word,As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:Have at thee, coward!Enter, several of both houses, who join the fray; then enter Citizens, with clubs Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!A crutch, a crutch! why call you for a sword?My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,And flourishes his blade in spite of me.Thou villain Capulet,--Hold me not, let me go.Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe.Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,--Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you beasts,That quench the fire of your pernicious rageWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,On pain of torture, from those bloody handsThrow your mistemper'd weapons to the ground,And hear the sentence of your moved prince.Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets,And made Verona's ancient citizensCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,To wield old partisans, in hands as old,Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate:If ever you disturb our streets again,Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.For this time, all the rest depart away:You Capulet; shall go along with me:And, Montague, come you this afternoon,To know our further pleasure in this case,To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?Here were the servants of your adversary,And yours, close fighting ere I did approach:I drew to part them: in the instant cameThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepared,Which, as he breathed defiance to my ears,He swung about his head and cut the winds,Who nothing hurt withal hiss'd him in scorn:While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,Came more and more and fought on part and part,Till the prince came, who parted either part.O, where is Romeo? saw you him to-day?Right glad I am he was not at this fray.Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sunPeer'd forth the golden window of the east,A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;Where, underneath the grove of sycamoreThat westward rooteth from the city's side,So early walking did I see your son:Towards him I made, but he was ware of meAnd stole into the covert of the wood:I, measuring his affections by my own,That most are busied when they're most alone,Pursued my humour not pursuing his,And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.Many a morning hath he there been seen,With tears augmenting the fresh morning dew.Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;But all so soon as the all-cheering sunShould in the furthest east begin to drawThe shady curtains from Aurora's bed,Away from the light steals home my heavy son,And private in his chamber pens himself,Shuts up his windows, locks far daylight outAnd makes himself an artificial night:Black and portentous must this humour prove,Unless good counsel may the cause remove.My noble uncle, do you know the cause?I neither know it nor can learn of him.Have you importuned him by any means?Both by myself and many other friends:But he, his own affections' counsellor,Is to himself--I will not say how true--But to himself so secret and so close,So far from sounding and discovery,As is the bud bit with an envious worm,Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow.We would as willingly give cure as know.See, where he comes: so please you, step aside;I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away.Good-morrow, cousin.Is the day so young?But new struck nine.My me! sad hours seem long.Was that my father that went hence so fast?It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?Not having that, which, having, makes them short.In love?Of love?Out of her favour, where I am in love.Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!O any thing, of nothing first create!O heavy lightness! serious vanity!Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire,sick health!Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!This love feel I, that feel no love in this.Dost thou not laugh?