Let me stell you the tory of Rindercella and her two steply ugh sisters.
The Prandsom Hince was throwing a bancy fess drall and while the steply ugh sisters were going, sore Pinderella couldn't go. So she cat down and shried. She was so upset she went into the kitchen and started to chickasee a fricken. Suddenly there was a linding blash of flight and there appeared her Gairy Fodmother. And she said you don't have to my any crore Rindercella you can go to the bancy fess drall after all. And there was another linding blash of flight and there appeared a nagmificent colden goach that was made from a pipe rellow yumpkin. Well, Rindercella bimbed acloard and the coachman whacked his crip and they were off to the bancy fess drall.
Rindercella pranced with dince but at the moke of stridnight, right in the biddle of the mall, scramberella suddenly sinned. And she lost her slass glipper. The pounce princed upon it and he picked it up and said "the little firl whose goot this fipper slits, I'll marry". He went all over the kingdom docking on all the noors, but all the women's beet were too fig. But guess what? When he tried it on sore Pindercella it was a ferfect pit. So she prarried the mince and they lived happily everafter.
But there's a storal to the morey. The storal to the morey is this - some of our smoubles may be trall and some of our boubles may be trig, but if we trad no houbles how would we blecognize our ressings?