Miller take me and miller grind me

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors' CDs. Nevertheless, I want the Dresden Dolls' Yes, Virginia. I have been given certain reasons to suspect that someone has bought it for me, so I cross my fingers and walk past the music store with only a deep sigh of longing, but I still cannot wait to hear how the album sounds. At this point I think I've heard all the songs in some live form or another, but it's not quite the same. Sing for the teachers who told you that you couldn't sing . . .

In brighter news, my contributor's copies of Mythic, edited by the ever-amazing Mike Allen, arrived in the mail yesterday. I am not only pleased because this first issue contains my short story "Exorcisms," whose origins strange_selkie (and anyone who has read The Dybbuk in Love) will recognize, but for the wealth of weird and lovely language I was granted to read on the train up to Boston. My favorites at the moment are Lawrence Schimel's "Kristallnacht," Matt Cheney's "In Exile," Ian Watson's "Saint Louisa of the Wild Children: An Annotated Hagiography," Charles Saplak's "Cemetery Seven," Catherynne M. Valente's "The Eight Legs of Grandmother Spider," Erzebet YellowBoy's "Misha and the Months," and Larry Hammer's "Pygmalion's Marriage," although my preferences could well change the next time I pick up the book: there's a lot here to admire. These are stories and poems that retell life into myth and vice versa, or take apart familiar stories into strangeness, or play with the tropes of fantasy and fairy tale to create something reminiscent of both and imitative of neither—and I can't wait until the next issue. You shouldn't, either. Go forth, pick up a copy, and make your inner storyteller happy.

The rest of the day rather vacuumed, so we'll leave it at that and go read some Aristotle.