Note: This entry is somewhat exaggerated for the purpose of being more entertaining. While it is loosely based on actual events, it is solely meant to be a satirical short story for your enjoyment. Thanks.

Pearl Harbor ruined my life. No, not that Pearl Harbor. Pearl Harbor, the Sherwin Williams paint color. It’s the color I decided to paint the master bedroom in my condo after obsessing over at least 47 different shades of tan and blue for three months. Personally, I like the color. It’s kind of a light coral/khaki color – neutral, but bright and kind of beachy. It looks great with white trim and the wood floors I’ll put down someday. But, that’s not the point.

I rent the master bedroom out to a girl who was out of town for the weekend. I had been telling her for weeks I was going to paint it. But, that’s also not the point.

Maybe I picked a bad weekend to paint – it was supposed to rain, but it ended up being the last beach weekend of the season. Maybe I should have been more prepared – I was still wavering on a color choice, and I had no supplies or ladder ready the morning we were supposed to paint. Or maybe I should have just painted the room blue.

Either way, on a partly cloudy Saturday morning four weeks ago, I woke up and decided my boyfriend and I were going to paint the room. And then I decided we weren’t going to paint the room. And then we checked the weather, and I decided we were going to paint the room. If I can offer you one tidbit of advice here, it’s this – don’t ever believe what you read about the weather.

“If it’s going to rain, then fuck it. Let’s just paint,” I said.

“Okay, just decide. I told you I’d help you, so, whatever you want to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Let’s just paint the room if you want to paint it.”

So off we went to Lowe’s. We picked up the paint (I decided on Pearl Harbor) and the rollers, some tape and a few tarps. We drove back to my house (in the 80-degree sunshine) and began to paint. We painted all that beautiful day and then we finished up on Sunday afternoon.

When we finally made it to the beach – where I can assure you my boyfriend would rather have been all weekend – it was late Sunday afternoon, and he was barely speaking to me.

Let me tell you a little bit about my boyfriend. My boyfriend is my best friend. He’s an amazing person, the nicest guy I’ve ever met and always fun and easy to be around. However, he is very non-confrontational and not much of a communicator, so it appears that he’s afraid to tell me anything that might piss me off. For instance, “Baby, let’s paint next weekend. I’d rather be at the beach today.” Here, I can offer you some more advice – don’t be afraid of your girlfriend (even if she’s from New Jersey).

By the time this painting debacle was over, my boyfriend had decided that perhaps he was unsure about whether or not he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. He also decided that he was too strapped for cash to go on our vacation that we had been planning for three months. And last but not least, he decided he needed some space.

Some space? Over painting? What the hell is that? We never even fight! We always have fun! I know he loves the beach, but I had no idea how much my boyfriend must really hate painting.

Anyway, fast forward four weeks. My perfect boyfriend is taking a break from dating me. My roommate has her shit strewn haphazardly all over the master bedroom, so it sort of looks like the actual Pearl Harbor in December of 1941. And I am just trying not to go crazy.

The only thing I could think of to do yesterday to prevent an oncoming anxiety attack was paint the hallway. I figure if I paint the condo one wall at a time, it should be done by December. So, I got out the bucket of Pearl Harbor and started slathering it on the wall. My roommate didn’t even notice.

“Did you notice the hallway?” I asked this evening.

“What about it?”

“I painted it.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Granted, it’s the hallway,” I said, “but you didn’t notice?”

“No,” she replied.

“Well, do you like it?”

“No. Not really.”

What? I thought you said you liked this color in your room?”

“I did. But, I don’t anymore. Nothing matches it.”

So, there you have it. I have no boyfriend, and my roommate hates her bedroom. She’ll probably move out any day now, and I’ll be forced to file for bankruptcy because I won’t be able to pay my mortgage. And then my condo will be foreclosed on by the bank, and I won’t even have any more walls to paint Pearl Harbor to keep me sane. I’ll veer off course into a downward spiral of depression and anxiety attacks and most likely kill myself by the end of the month. And when I do, I guess you can just tell everyone Pearl Harbor ruined my life.

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