There’s a house I want. Bad. And I feel like it should be mine. It feels like fate. It’s just down the street from where I live now, and since the first time I saw it, I fell in love with it. Which makes the current situation regarding the house even more, well, fateful.

Janice knows the owners, a young couple. They’re moving in about six months. I know how much they paid for their house (thanks to handy-dandy public records and the city of New Orleans website) and it wasn’t insanely expensive. And it was only two years ago. And they haven’t done much to it. And I met them at a New Year’s Eve party. But I didn’t know they were the owners of my house. I actually have down-payment money for a house. (Or a wedding. But I can save up for a wedding.) It is the cutest house in the world. Two bedrooms. A bungalow, not a shotgun. A little backyard. A shed in the backyard. Renovated, but not by the current homeowners. Don’t need a realtor, since my mom can do the paperwork. See, I’d save them money! I mean, I’d sell me the house! I just hope they feel the same way. It is the house of my dreams. But can I afford it on my own? (Or rather, would I qualify for the mortgage on my own? Doubtful.)

Sigh.

Onto another subject. I found a fantastic website recently, I may have mentioned it. It’s actually a blog. Actually, two. I’ve spent too many evenings reading the archives and now I feel like I really know this person. She’s a great writer, a poet, actually, and I don’t even like poetry. Isn’t the internet weird… I wish my blog was like hers. I want to be friends with this girl. (Woman, girl, we’re the same age.) But now I’m afraid if I email her I’ll come across as some kind of crazed stalker. Ah well.