John was into Satan. Susie loved her disco records. I was day drunk like usual, and we all became accidental blood siblings when I started smashing all the wine bottles. I was allergic to grapes, and I wanted to see what John’s pristine oak floors would look like with a reddish tint. They looked good.
I only truly feel alive when I am furthest away from death. Nothing is more exhilarating for me than to be awake in my house, curled up with my carbon monoxide detector. I am so far away from the dangers of the outside world, and I feel like a superhero. I could live forever if I never had to go out there again.
I had a dream the two of us were walking toward the edge of your sanity, but it was a physical place we could see coming. I held onto you this time, and you didn’t walk over that edge. I didn’t follow you over. I saved you in a way I never could in our waking life. Then I noticed you weren’t as sexually inquisitive this way, so I pushed you over the edge anyway.
You know, every second, minute, hour is an example of infinity at work. An infinite amount of numbers between when you say “one” and finally move onto “two.” Unsaid. Unfelt. But they are there. I’ve lived these decimals between the integers with you, so I think I’ve put in enough time being exclusively with you that you could maybe let this be an open marriage? Who wants to sleep with the same person for infinity?
How many times a day — every day — did you have to remind yourself I was worth it while you let all your dreams slip away? And how much more does it hurt that none of mine came to fruition either? We hitched our wagons to the heaviest of anchors, and we didn’t even know it.
This house keeps showing me its own future. Renovations. The day it gets demolished. Bullet holes in the ceiling, and blood against the walls. Heights of children marked along the doorways of their rooms. But it never shows it to me in order, and I can never grasp which parts happen here to us or other owners. I can’t tell which future is ours’.
Do you want to know how God feels? Get a bunch of people and put them in a room. Decide which ones live or die. Reward the ones who say they love you. Wait for the Stockholm syndrome to set in. Maybe watch some TV while you wait.
How much time did we waste using condoms, taking birth control, and avoiding sex altogether just because we were afraid of having a baby we couldn’t afford? If we only knew back then the truth we know now. If your baby is cute enough to be on TV, it pretty much pays for itself.
This house is haunted by the ghosts of your anxieties. Vestiges of your worries scattered about the place. Doors you took off the hinges. Everything unplugged when not in use. The switch to the garbage disposal disconnected. Knives stored in safes. Things in glass bottles poured into safe, plastic containers. All food frozen to keep. It’s a wonder we can function at all with these creeping intrusions.
Babe, I want you to know I made an exception for you. I had you marked and everything, but then I noticed you were too damn fine to drown in my bathtub and then use your parts for taxidermical experiments. You’re so fine, I decided to come over here and ask you out instead. So can I get your phone number or what?