(no subject)

Two days ago I ordered a special pizza deal from Dominos, the three-mediums-for-five-dollars-each bargain, which would feed me for days on end normally. I'd just about polished off one of them by last night, and the other two were in the fridge. I understand the peril of leaving pre-prepared food around this place, but I did not expect to come out this morning and find all three boxes sitting near the trash.

R looked up from his laptop.

"Yeah, uh. I killed your pizza. It was that kind of night."

*facepalm*

He's promised that he'll pay for all the meat for our grill party this weekend to make it up to me. As long as I cook it, mind you. Which really was the right thing to say, because I got totally distracted by what I will cook and how I will cook it...

(no subject)

I HAVE THREE THINGS TO SAY.

1. Pi, like the Pythagorean Theorem and the theroetical perfect curve, is one of the reasons I hate math. It makes no rational sense. Don't try to explain it or justify it, I will point and mock.

2. I have got my revenge. I came home and R was collapsed on the couch, completely ill from eating two medium pizzas. See? These things always work themselves out.

3. I just wrote a sex scene between a man and a piece of architecture. Only in the Whoniverse.

Summary: In which Gerald Carter is distinctly annoyed, Ianto Jones goes exploring, Lisa Hallet is the cause of a falling-out, Owen Harper contemplates new digs, Jack Harkness has sex (with architecture), Gwen Cooper weds, and Glen Miller plays. PG. Spoilers through 2.09, Something Borrowed.

If We Haven't Got Nightingales, Glen Miller Will Suffice

3a. I have ice cream. Om nom nom.