Sigh

this is probably just an excerpt from a fiction piece i'm writing so you should probably just dismiss it all as the ravings of a lunatic. an angry lunatic.

i fucking live here too! i'm not just here to hide in the goddamn background waiting for you to do something. i might not bring in all the money this house sees but i bring in a fucking huge portion of it, and i should be entitled to the same fucking courtesies and activities that you are. don't bitch me out because i want to play a song on rock band after you've been on the xbox nonstop for three straight days; don't bitch me out because we don't have any weed after you smoked all the shit (which i bought) while i was at work. we're expected to drop every fucking thing we're doing at the drop of a hat if you want or need something, expected to stay nice and churchmouse-silent on the occasion when you fall asleep in the living room, and heaven fucking forbid one of us turns on the heat overnight while you're in your bedroom and gets you a little too warm. nobody stops shit to help me when i need it; when i try to take a nap in the living room you spend the whole time screaming into your microphone at four times the volume you need to; and the rest of us freeze fucking nightly so you can be a little more comfortable. this is getting old old old and i don't know how much longer i can keep the fucking faith. yeah, i've had "proof" now and then, but the human mind tends to discount and forget these things as time passes, and you haven't done one obvious thing in my interest in months and months. sure, you claim you're always out there holding the darkness at bay, using up favors to keep me alive and free, but i've really never seen any evidence of that. i'm just supposed to take your word for it that without you i'd be lost and doomed, while you sit on your ass and BLEED ME DRY. i could afford to live alone, and given a year or two i could probably even be almost out of debt. but instead i pay your rent and buy your weed and get fucked over on almost every cigarette we split while you do your thing and i'm expected to keep my nose to the grindstone. well i don't have much nose left at this point, which is probably for the best because it means i can't smell the dishes piling up, or all the bullshit i come home to every time i go to work. and my friends wonder why i'm such a workaholic; being at work is a fucking vacation compared to this.

i don't know what i'm doing anymore. if %5 of what you say to me is true than either you will read this or will be told about it or you already know it all anyway. i want SO FUCKING BADLY to believe that this is going somewhere, but from someone who routinely postpones the apocalypse for trivial reasons, it's getting harder and harder. how is it so easy to believe that you and your friends are responsible for flooding australia until the moment you say it won't sink underwater entirely because one of your gaming buddies lives there?

whatever. i'll go back to hiding in my room most of the time and maybe after a few weeks or months of it you'll realize that i'm actually a fairly key member of this household. the dishes won't get done and nobody will clean the living room and maybe i won't be there to cook or walk the dog every fucking time.

oh fuck who am i kidding nothing is going to change

you wear me out. i apologized because i'm not ready to deal with you just yet. I honestly don't want to fight with you. He's my best friend too, and I barely see him. You've sucked him dry of his wit and humor.

you honestly annoy the shit out of me. i sigh because i have to cover the sound of my tongue being chewed on. i cheek and tongue a lot of what you do. and i don't know if i can handle it much longer

He's my friend, and as long as you two talk, I'll be civil. Behind closed doors, you are a bitch that I can not stand.

grrr.