Hope is the thing with feathers*

Well, well. Another fish on the line... while I was out at Pier 1 buying the end table from this very cool Pier 1 collection, HLM was out showing the apartment to four (yes, four!) different parties. The third one wanted it, and HLM called the landlords over and the guy filled out an application on the spot. Better yet, he responded to an ad at a price slightly higher than the last one did, so if this one goes through we won't really have lost anything to the last fiasco--it would even be slightly better. I of course reacted to all this news by raising a cynical eyebrow and saying "Don't stop advertising"--and we're not. Not going to stop advertising or showing it, this time, until someone signs a lease.

aykroyd's girlfriend DF is coming to see us tonight... we're making pizza for her (yes, whole wheat again) and hanging out. She's a sweet girl and I'm sure she's pretty lonely with aykroyd gone... would she even want to come over if she wasn't? Don't know for sure. But things are as they are, and she likes pizza and puzzles, so for now we're more than cool enough. :)

* The thing with feathers, crazy flexagon, you ask? Pish to you. It's an Emily Dickinson poem... not my favorite, admittedly.

Anyone want to read a sick, sick, sick story?

The trouble is, I'm not kidding. It's one of the nastiest things I've ever read. And I'm just hoping, in my grossed-out misery, that someone's up for sharing the pain. Out of boredom, perhaps, or curiosity... because you are curious now, aren't you? More curious than you were about that Nebula-winning story I linked to on Tuesday, the one that was actually good? You are. I can tell. Oh, the humanity.

Well, here you go: the story is this one by Chuck Palahniuk. I should mention that I didn't notice it was by him until after I'd read the story. If I'd seen he was the author I'd have done the smart thing and not read it. Why am I not more careful? Why?