Love and Real(ity) Estate

I don't talk to girls, which is kind of why I don't call the numbers on those For Sale signs in the windows of marketable homes and storefronts. Two different levels are on display here, and I fall in love with each of them, sometimes several times a week, by the day, or even hourly.
My cyber(pop)punk apocalypse begins with imaginative speculation: I wonder if this girl wants to hold my hand and listen to MxPx; or, in the other realm, I wonder if this house wants me to strip its lead paint while I look hot in protective breathing equipment.
I fall in love with property now more than with girls. Dan and I go out cruising and perusing through abandoned business districts and the nearby residential areas, but he's got a girlfriend and I don't. He calls all the numbers on the placards in windows; I stalk the properties through their Howard Hanna profiles. We talk about an intimate future that may always be just out of our present reach.
I don't really want to be in love with girls, and if I wait long enough before saying anything to them, then some impossible-to-ignore flaw is always revealed: She has a boyfriend; the roof is made of tarp; she doesn't like chickpeas; there's a basement full of raccoons in this one; she likes Saves the Day; there's an inescapable tax lien from the DPW, $75,000 worth of mortgage leftovers that smell like old lasagna, and an ex-porno theater around the corner.
Every experience urges me onward and embarrasses me publicly at the same time. It's kind of like walking through Frick Park while holding hands with a girl on the right and walking a magnificent, well-behaved Great Dane on leash to the left. We round the bend and the sun drops from the sky like a head from atop shoulders or the tower from Allegheny's Carnegie library. There's now a cold, lifeless manikin hand where once there were callus-free palms and fingers with endearingly dirty nails; and the Great Dane on the other side has somehow morphed into The Devil's Horse, carrying his liquor in full tow, staring you down with a Massive Horse Face that could turn the best Kombucha into a pint of Late August's Dumpster Juice.
I experience unrequited love every time I remodel a superficial storefront with my mind. I fall in and out of love nearly every time I see a new girl. And I think I'm never getting married, for fear of commitment basks through long hours of pointed exploration and on top of longer days of research.
Speculate the market? Get approved for loans? I just wanted to replace the shingles, hold hands, and get high on your roof.