domestification of a rabbid squirrel

i have a date tonight.

well, maybe anyway. we already rearranged tuesday to wednesday, then had to rearrange wednesday to thursday.

par for the course.

BUT. any time i have a date, there's this stubborn, resilient, inextinguishable stupid little flame of hope that resides somewhere among the cobwebs in the "relationship" part of my brain that says "...but what if this one works out?"

then the rest of my brain laughs and laughs and makes a few snide comments, replays some of the more spectacular blooper reels from the various train-wrecks over the years and we go back to being our normal, bitter, hopeless, non-romantic self.

but.

that stupid fucking little flame is fucking stubborn and stay around, no matter what.

and once in a while when i'm bored, the oxygen whistling through my ears fans the flame and it gets a little bigger and starts to do shadow puppet shows.

but it doesn't know how the story goes.

so the puppet shows are confusing at best.

i'm holding out for a call from tarantino for the option on some of them...

but in those sad little puppet shows, there's a struggle to figure out what the fuck domestification would really look like.

it starts out really basic: where the fuck would a significant other keep their clothes? my drawers and closet are full.

would they want to bring their own furniture into my house? FUCK NO. i like all my shit. there's no room for a barcalounger here chandler.

how would getting ready for work in the mornings go? i have a very dialed in routine. DON'T MESS WITH MY ROUTINE.

and what about getting ready for bed at night? do i have to actually let them see me without make up?

what about the nights when i have insomnia and binge watch netflix in bed? will i have to do that on the couch? will they sleep on the couch?

who get the last glass of milk? who has to run to the store on a saturday morning when you realize you're out of coffee?

i almost talk myself out of even going on a date because if one ever does go well, THEN WHAT? ugh. would i have to wash boy underwear in the laundry? the kid does his own now. boy laundry is gross.

THESE ARE IMPORTANT ISSUES.

i'm used to my space being my space. i tolerate the kid mess because i'm genetically responsible for it. it still annoys me though. HOW HARD IS IT TO NOT STICK YOUR SOCKS IN THE COUCH CUSHIONS?

what if i want to read a book and they want to do something? what if i want to do something and they think it's lame. WHAT IF THEY PUT KETCHUP ON THEIR EGGS??

ugh.

is it too late to cancel? again?