To The House
I am defeated.
I'm completely out of patience and soon I'll be out of money.
I don't know what I ever did, besides buy you, to warrant such hostility. Don't you like the improvements? Was that shade of blue not to your liking? I'm sorry. I had such high hopes that we could be friends. But each time I get comfortable in you, almost at the precise moment I think we're getting somewhere, you thwart me. My list of repairs is now thirty-seven bullets long and growing. The money and time involved in each task makes me want to curl up and cry. But what's money or time to a house, right? You have no need for either.
What do you want then, hell-house? What have you not already drained from me? I dream about burning you to the ground. Fleeing. Passing you off to the first person who shows an interest. These thoughts just aren't normal. We should be on the same side, you and I. Instead I go home to your termite infested walls and try to pretend that I don't know you. I'm just renting. This nightmare isn't mine. I'm such a great judge of character! The house I bought was warm and beautiful. Someone must have switched it in the night. Then I wake up and you're there.
So I quit.
Do whatever the hell you want.
(If anyone needs me, I'll be in the carboard box on the beach.)
Your exasperated owner.