Feed me, seymour

You'd think

but you'd be wrong

I got on the scales today, out of curiosity. I'd expect so few meals, and indeed such little food, to have shown up in the figures but if anything I've gained rather than lost. There's probably some deep and meaningful conjunction of depression and metabolism ... and something I can't even imagine to explain why I've put on weight this week.

Do I care?

Not particularly. My trousers fit. As long as I don't have to fork out on a new wardrobe, simply because I lack sufficient self-discipline to maintain my weight and size within reasonable parameters I don't particularly care what I weigh.

I do care that the slug is still under this roof and there's no realistic prospect of him fucking off. Surely there must be someone else out there who'd settle for him. Perhaps some zealous and desperate female who believes, entirely mistakenly, that no one is irredeemably awful. She's the sort of woman who sends offers of marriage written probably in green ink to murders or armed robbers serving very, very long prison sentences. Come to think of it that's exactly the sort of woman he does attract ... the sort who knos au fond that she doesn't actually have to deliver on all the promises she makes to herself because for the forseeable future he's beyond reach.

I do care that so many simple things seem like insurmountable problems. If we worked together things could be turned around, but there's nothing left on my side and I doubt there was anything there in the first place on his side.

He's never given up anything in his life, not for any cause. The idea that he might follow such a course of action seems never to cross his mind. To put a bit of effort into keeping the house neat and tidy, let alone carrying out a bit of maintenance or some repairs? But that would eat into his drinking and smoking and reading and television watching and music listening time. Why the fuck should he give those things up? Does it matter that the house is a derelict slum?

Tidy the garden?

Fuck off.

Work?

What's that?

Things are fine because one day mummy will die and what's left by the tax man will be his and it will be enough to keep him going for, oh, years.

He's been at work this morning. He's due home soon. That's 36 hours I've got to spend in his company and I don't know how to get through this. If I work I'll just get steamed up because you can bet the bastard will be sprawled on the floor with a hand down his pants as long as the rugby is on, then he'll slump asleep until I dish up food which he'll scoff then go outside to drink and smoke till I'm too tired to stay up any longer. So that's the next nine hours.

This is a form of torture. I'm going to sign off now before I work myself into a suicidal state.