Yeah, I don't commit well. I kick and scream and scratch the orderlies at the psych ward. (RIM SHOT!)

No, really, I do have a problem committing. I can't use the word boyfriend. Like the other night a...uh...a...gentleman caller was over the apartment. After our tea and crumpets we went to sleep only to be awoken by my roommate blasting KMFDM at 3am. I stormed the living room from the North entrance making my way through my bedroom door over the laundry I hadn't put away. I arrived without warning armed only with my bare hands and my temper. I said, "Hey Chris, my boyfri...I mean this dude I'm kind of seein-- the male that I go to movies with guy i had sex with this eve---well is it really sex if no one comes? I mean, not that it was bad, you know we were drunk, so it's not like he can hold me to anything. And I am not. Look! just turn the fucking music off! He has to get up early tomorrow." And then I retreated through the narrow hallway back to base exhausted and shaken.

Imagine if I ever did get married. I'd introduce my husband, "Hi, this is my friend, well my roommate and my friend. The kids? Oh you mean our roommates not of age? They're doing real well, thanks for asking."