we coulda been neighbors...

but guess what maggie gyllenhaal and husband peter? we still can be.

check it: i'm getting kicked out up the street from where, i heard, you're moving in. and then i read, you have a garden apartment that there's no tenant in. so i propose that i be that person, that tenant, that friendly gal whose rent is no more than 1500 a month or less, cause she's so outta sight and swell and supercool. that person from whom you borrow sugar or, in my experience, a toilet plunger (i washed it off before i returned it cause, i am considerate, above all). mi casa es su casa. and i don't even speak spanish, so you know i mean it. i won't play music too loud. i won't smoke inside there—hell, i don't even smoke at all, except sometimes at parties or when i travel but those occasions are getting rarer. much. and, you can drink my beer when i have beer. you can drink my wine when that's around. when paparazzi come around wearing papagallos, i'll shoo them.

hey, think of what we have in common: movies, you make them, i see them. food, we all eat it. that's the start of a rilly rilly long list.

i'll knit your baby a sweater. i'll make you a lasagna.

please. don't make me be homeless. as my landlord said, 'that would be unchristian.' she should know cause she goes to church.

hallelujah and amen.