Monday, January 24, 2011
move along nothing to see here
One of those weekends where I felt I needed to catch up with my friends.
I needed to bitch. And I needed to bitch good.
The bubbling undercurrent of irritation is starting to make like Brisbane during rainy season.
It's starting to overflow just a titch. And since I'm starting to not give a fuck, my level of tolerance is dangerously low.
I've pinpointed the issue.
1) I have never felt like I am living in a house. I am living in her house.
She owns everything, from the shopping list to how we clean the sink.
2) I have therefore never been able to truly relax in this house.
She is so condescending. But the worst part? She doesn't realise it. It's slowly but surely killing me.
She tells my Brit, when he emerges from the toilet, "to put the seat down." He always does put the fucking seat down. In fact I've never seen the thing up, even in his house. She'll do that. Tell us to do stuff when we don't need to be told. Now that is fucked up.
4) I am still harbouring annoyance over the fact I cannot say 'spazzy 'or 'retarded' - even when referring to myself - in her midst. The whole thing is RETARDED.
5) She uses the lounge. No-one else does. Ever. Because she watches Hollyoaks for two hours every night and that's that.
6) She decides who lives in the house. We don't meet these people until they move in.
So I had a mate over on Friday to assess the situation. I'm a female living with a female. She's getting under my skin. Maybe it's just me. Women being women. Hormones, too much oestrogen, the fact she's Aussie.
And that's another thing. She has made me so utterly and crazily fucked off that I now cannot stand to be around anything with an Aussie accent.
More about this later.
At the moment I'm biting my tongue, saying to myself, "don't say anything don't say anything, it'll make it worse, shut up, only a few more months..."
There's probably no logical explanation for my resentment. She's not a bad person deep down.
Went to a pub and promptly walked into a place off Northcote Road in Clapham, which was in throes of celebrating fucking Aussie Day. "Banging Aussie beats!" it promised (Kylie Minogue?), while everyone was decked out in boardies and t-shirts. Of all the bloody places I wanted to drown my sorrows.
Am sorry if you're an Aussie, it's not your fault - but Christ you people are irritating me.
OK OK. To be fair, she's irritating me. Her holier-than-thou, matriarchal, and just generally annoying attitude has made me frantic.
I've taken 6 months of this, and although in small doses it hasn't killed me, hell, it's been handable to a point. However this has now built up and is turning me into Mighty Bitch From The Blazing Furnaces Of Hell.
The tipping point came on Friday. I spent a lot of the weekend catching up with my mates and as if by invitation sent by Satan himself, found myself in a dodgy Aussie bar.
I feel a bit like a two litre coke bottle that's had plutonium added to it, shaken for an hour, and left in the sun. Scary?