Are alligators fun to poke?

     This morning  afternoon I woke up, walked downstairs, and saw the newspaper out of the corner of my eye. I was surprised to see this headline on the front page. For some reason I felt as if it had a good connotation:

     My imagination quickly added to this with an esthetically pleasing image that bore some resemblance to this: 

     It then furnished it with a cute little story:

     My just-awoken mind had been taken on a flight of fancy with this lovely story and was taking great pleasure in it. Gabi imagined alligators and policemen finally living in peace, and alligators enjoying freshly baked doughnuts. A whole new era of alligator-policeman peace! Then she realized that it actually said "Police Probe Allegations" and the headline was continued when the newspaper was flipped over and was about a murder. 

     I'm trying to figure out how my brain could have made such a mistake. The only think I can deduce is an overdose of something, that something probably being matzah or sleep. Or lack of doughnuts for the duration of Passover. (Can someone overdose on a lack of something? Thoughtful Gabi will add that to her list of questions to mull over, along with "Does God exist?" "Is society worth it or should I go live with the wolves?" and "Should I stop procrastinating?".) I can also turn my misinterpretation into a whole commentary about how there should really be more alligator probing and less murdering. 

I am now going to go do schoolwork, find a birthday present for my grandfather, stare at my slipper-socks, and do such pleasant things. Toodles!

-Gabi

I feel like laughing evilly. MWAHAAHAHAA.

My grandmother bought me a cross-stitching set, which I am probably addicted to. Thing is, when I hear cross-stitching, or needlepoint, or pretty much anything involving a thread, I imagine a proper young lady in this dress placidly sitting in a well kept sitting room with her needle and thread.  To properly illustrate the incongruity of me doing cross-stitching, here is a handy little badly-drawn MS paint picture:

I actually did find myself muttering control zed angrily under my breath while messing up stitches, because I am unmistakably, undeniably, irrevocably cool, despite using large and unwieldy words like 'incongruity' and 'placid', and being able to recite 38 digits of pi, and having arguments involving characters from Harry Potter fanfiction (fanfics are my guilty pleasure). Ha. If you haven't noticed my sarcasm hand raised high in the air, please get your eyes checked.


On to more interesting things! Oh, wait. There isn't much. I mean, I went to my grandparents' cottage over the weekend, and we made maple syrup. There was also a loon frozen into the ice in the lake because it couldn't take off before the lake froze. This all sounds very Canadian, doesn't it?


Speaking of Canada, do you know what else is Canadian? I don't actually know. I wanted to use this as a transition when I realised how cheesy it is, and how I also don't need the transition because I don't have much to say anyway. Oh, wait. Hot Guy at school is Canadian. 


REALISTIC GABI: He probably isn't, actually. 
SCHOLARLY GABI: We did a poll in Geography class, and it turns out that only 10 out of the 30 people in our class are born in Canada, 1 parent is, and one grandparent is.
POSITIVE GABI:  I love Toronto for that, the multiculturalism is great. 
REALISTIC GABI: They're all from Asia, sweetie.
IMMATURE GABI: Your mom's from Asia.
REALISTIC GABI: She was born in Canada.
IMMATURE GABI: Your mom's mom's from Asia.
REALISTIC GABI: She's European.
IMMATURE GABI: Your mom's mom's. . . (Infinite loop loops infinitely.) 


Goodbye.


-Gabi


Socks today: One is black and purple, and one has an argyle pattern.