Commitment-phobe.

A Story by uhm.

What am I doing here? This house isn’t me at all - an infinite universe of unnecessary rooms, where the echoes of footsteps on fake oak floors ring out from every corner until you feed it the over-priced contemporary furniture it craves. I can just see it now:

Over there we'll place the 60" flat screen TV. Not above the bare, stark white gas fireplace we'll never use, oh no, not there. She'll want to hang her ridiculous modern art of scribbles and finger paints I tried talking her out of buying. Or perhaps she'll change her mind, saying it's too eccentric for a living room so close to the front of the house. One can only hope - if that 'painting', or what can really only be referred to as a 7th grader's art project, is one of the first things I saw coming home from work, the resentment would slowly build up in me like her bleached hair collecting in the shower drain covered in a thin film of mildew. I'll have to shove metal wires down my own throat to be able to swallow again.

But yes, the painting will end up there. On this wall she'll insist we place the $15,000 dollar slab of vinyl slightly at an angle, even though it completely disrupts the flow of the room and I'll constantly stub my toe on the pewter coffee table that will be centered perfectly in front of it. Every few months or so, the constant collisions with my big toe will nudge it just enough off center that she'll notice and get angry. When she's angry she refuses to blow me. When she refuses to blow me, I resort to hookers. I can't have another slip-up, things were bumpy after the whole syphilis incident. I'll have to spend a little more on a classy hooker, piling more debt on top of this massive tomb I dug for myself buying this house in the first place. There, and, there, and also there, will be clusters of frivolous toys brilliantly engineered by our daughters, who increasingly remind me of her mother. Five feet away will sit the toy box that never will have the pleasure of knowing those toys, because like her mother, they are above the simple tasks the rest of the world does on a daily basis.

Next to the TV I bought, and will never get to watch, she'll put the bookcase filled with everything but books, the essential purpose for the invention of the f*****g bookcase. No, of course not, who reads books? Not her - unless you count "The Secret", which no self-respecting, novel enthusiast ever would. Instead it will be filled with useless s**t like a glass bird or an antique ashtray, even thought we don't f*****g smoke. Lest we forget a stupid "statue" of a person with no arms, legs, or any assemblance of appendages that could be even remotely human, yet is titled "Man". Finally, next to the amputee dude, will be our little 8" x 10" family portrait in the frighteningly nauseating gold frame that clashes with the rest of the room, filled with only brushed silver and pewter finishes. It is the only picture of me in the entire 3 story house I paid for, with money I don’t have, and only reminds me of much hotter she used to be. One night, after my fifth Bourbon (one more than usual), I'll slip up and mention how old and fat she looks. She'll cry and eat an entire chocolate cake she claims to be gluten free - but isn't - and force me to sleep on that god-awful sofa that is only okay to own if you're Steve Jobs or f*****g James Bond.

On that wall, there, I'll decorate the wall with my gray matter and tiny bits of skull. I'll be sure to move the painting there first before I shoot myself in the head - it'll piss her off I moved her s**t and hopefully the addition of my splattered brain will add to emotion the painting is portraying - but will probably just f*****g ruin it.

"So you ready to go out to dinner?"

"Look, yeah, this isn't going to work."

"What do you mean"

"You and me, I just don't feel like we're going to work out."

"But, we haven't even gone on a date yet...we just met in person like 5 minutes ago when you came inside..."

"Yeah, well, it was a very revealing 5 minutes. It was nice while it lasted, but we're just too different. Bye.."