And as my head and my heart fought like brothers torn apart...
You're so irritable at the moment. Stupid things that really shouldn't bother you make you want to shout. Want to fight. Want to weep.
Crumbs in your margarine. Dishwasher incorrectly stacked. Flatmate eating your food. Flatmate putting her wet washing on top of yours on the airer.
Flatmate generally, currently. Last night she brought home a Christmas tree. Decorated it. Played Christmas songs. Made you want to scream. Her insistence on putting music channels (that she knows bore you rigid) endlessly on the television.
You feel that you cannot really say anything because it's her flat and you're only renting a room from her. But you can't help but feel that that should entitle you to a little bit of respect.
But hey, if it wasn't her then someone else would be irritating you.
You could always get round it by stopping eating and going out a bit more. Grow a fucking social life, perhaps.
It's the misery and the despair, really. You'd been a bit better for a month or so, but then the last couple of weeks have been spent working away from home. Your birthday passed this week mostly without comment. Your twenty-fourth. And the horror suddenly strikes - you've been writing the same old self-loathing drivel in this LiveJournal since you were eighteen. For six years.
Oh Jesus. How did six years go so fast?
You've got to wonder: if you've already been putting up with this for ten years (four even before you started sharing your pathetic pain with LiveJournal), at what point would it be reasonable to give up? People say that some day, things will get better and that you just need to work at it. But it's been a very, very long time and you are very, very tired.
Oh, Christ. It's just all too awful.
Crumbs in your margarine. Dishwasher incorrectly stacked. Flatmate eating your food. Flatmate putting her wet washing on top of yours on the airer.
Flatmate generally, currently. Last night she brought home a Christmas tree. Decorated it. Played Christmas songs. Made you want to scream. Her insistence on putting music channels (that she knows bore you rigid) endlessly on the television.
You feel that you cannot really say anything because it's her flat and you're only renting a room from her. But you can't help but feel that that should entitle you to a little bit of respect.
But hey, if it wasn't her then someone else would be irritating you.
You could always get round it by stopping eating and going out a bit more. Grow a fucking social life, perhaps.
It's the misery and the despair, really. You'd been a bit better for a month or so, but then the last couple of weeks have been spent working away from home. Your birthday passed this week mostly without comment. Your twenty-fourth. And the horror suddenly strikes - you've been writing the same old self-loathing drivel in this LiveJournal since you were eighteen. For six years.
Oh Jesus. How did six years go so fast?
You've got to wonder: if you've already been putting up with this for ten years (four even before you started sharing your pathetic pain with LiveJournal), at what point would it be reasonable to give up? People say that some day, things will get better and that you just need to work at it. But it's been a very, very long time and you are very, very tired.
Oh, Christ. It's just all too awful.