I think I'm dying or something. The last guy who lived in my house died--some horrible, lingering illness. We bought the house because it was cheap...and also because it's a cool-looking old place, a bit creaky, with a peaked roof like a witch's hat. Right after my wife and I moved in, a couple of old ladies from the Historical Society came by and gave us some information on the house: apparently George M. Cohan used to practice piano in our living room. I'd like to know how anyone got a piano in here. It's weird to see a funky little gingerbread house like this in the middle of the city, which is why I like it. I'd have been dead long ago if I had to live in the fucking suburbs. The basement is really something out of a horror movie, with its uneven stone steps and walls, which probably leak radon into the house. And the cobwebs. I should do something about the cobwebs, and the weird black fungus, but I figure it's probably too late--the best I can do is just die here and let the next guy deal with it.