So much crap

So much crap, so little time to wrap it up in tidy parcels for disposal here.

First of all the fiasco of the camp. The offspring sent off with a suitcase of totally inappropriate clothing, because he knows best. What a fucking moron he is. If she doesn't come back to us with pneumonia we'll be fortunate.

I've spent most of this week seething and angry at everything including myself for not having the spine to tell the fucker to, well, fuck off. I just wish he'd drop dead. So much. And he's going into a pauper's grave in a cardboard box no matter what happens after the dire straits to which he's reduced us by his irresponsibility.

Then this week, which is supposed to be the first of my two week's of annual holiday I've been up at some god awful hour of the morning, being a trained monkey then coming back here and having to spend hour after hour after interminable hour in the fucker's company. No wonder I've drunk so much this week. I've drunk heroically for England. Sad to think that not so long ago I was going days that stretched into weeks without touching a drop. Stuck within these four walls with only him and his dreary conversation, drinking copious quantities has been about the only thing to do.

Then on Wednesday I flipped. The previous two days I'd done half shifts. Wednesday I did a whole shift. Four thirty in the morning is an uncivilised time to eat, so I didn't. I went up to work on a tidal wave of coffee, then hit the wall at around 10:30 when my blood sugar levels plummeted. I staggered on to 2:00pm on a fist full of sweet biscuits. I hadn't even had a couple of hours respite, as I had enjoyed the previous two days, between my return and his. No, he was right there in my face determined to inflict his company on me.

The only scrap of consolation I could find in the situation was that I wouldn't have a repeat performance on the following day because he had plans to go out. Except the indolent fucker missed his train and hung around like the awful stench he is. Hours and hour and more hours of him, again.

The one job he could have done to make me feel better about him not fucking off was the one job he conspicuously ignored. I could only lock myself away, stick my fingers in my ears and sing to my self.

Even today he was around when he shouldn't have been, coming back to get some things that he'd forgotten. Now I'm just waiting for the dread sound of his footfall and his heavy hand on the back door.

I'm not quite suicidal and I'm not quite murderous, but I've felt at time this week like I normally only feel when I'm being racked by an hormonal surge once a month.

Now where did I put that rat poison? Just kidding. Just.