I'm a bit of a collector, which has annoyed most of the women I've dated. Nothing is less romantic than a date busting her head after slipping on a stack of old childhood photographs scattered across the floor. "What? You'd like to cuddle with me in my bed? Hold on, I think it's under that pile of t-shirts that I haven't worn in a decade. Or it’s under that other pile. Maybe we could go to your place?"

But the junk in my living space is nothing compared to the emotional baggage I've collected. Sometimes emotional baggage is a deep-seated issue with vulnerability and trust that never heals itself, other times it’s a bruise on a well-worn heart from a not-yet-forgotten lover. Even if I can convince some woman to ignore the detritus on the floor, what's a gal to do when I offer up my heart and it's stuffed with all the ancient aches and memories I just can't throw out yet? For although some women find beauty in a cluttered heart, most can’t imagine investing into such a dive. It's a lot like apartment hunting. Some places you can tell just need a little fixing up, while others make you think, is someone still living here?