Sometimes I wish I were a kangaroo. Other times, I think that if I were a supermodel, then everyone would want to be my friend. But still the thought lingers: why don’t I own a waffle iron?
One day in seventh grade, I walked into my classroom (well, the smaller auditorium — I had homeroom or English or something like that) to find the above passage written on the white board. I thought it was fantastic — absolutely the perfect mix of random statements. Continue reading