Despite this irreparable defect, I decided to date him anyway. Now, a year later, my friends say we're like the bizarro-world couple. I imagined my honeymoon to be a trip to the Super Bowl; he wants to go to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. Not that I would mind going to Paris, but if I had Super Bowl tickets?!? There's no question. The Louvre isn't going anywhere and the Mona Lisa has been around for thousands of years, but how often could you land two tickets to the biggest game of the year?
So, when we decided to move in together, I saw my opportunity. I felt convinced that once we were in the same house, I could persuade him to see the finer, artistic points of football. But, no matter the bribe, he can never stand it for more than two quarters before begging to be released from the sofa. After so many refusals, I began to feel like it was a personal affront. How could he so callously reject something so important to me? I went to all of his art exhibits and supported his passions whole-heartedly. Finally, I confronted him with my righteous indignation. That's when he asked me, "How entertaining would it be for you to watch me paint instead of just seeing the finished piece? Watching a football game to me is like you watching me paint." Okay, so he made a good point.
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Now, we've found a common ground. He still tolerates me and my pizza consuming the couch and television during football season, but I no longer require him to enjoy the sport with me. Lately, he's been using the time in between commercials to sketch renditions of me. The final product is being hidden until the official unveiling at his next exhibit, which I hope isn't a series of paintings of me screaming at the television with pizza on my face. I'm sure it will be brilliant. Like I said, he is very talented. And, even though I envisioned me and my guy bonding over football on the couch together, I have to admit, this is so much better.