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Listening to Dar WIlliams' The End of the Summer||Reading Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain||
@ 5:13 pm on 01.02.04
Somebody rescue me, for I may just kill someone before our time here is up. This morning we were awakened by a knock and an order to shut the heater off in our bedroom. 1.) The heater wasn�t on; it was my fan. 2.) You�re listening to the goings-on in your 22 year old son�s and his girlfriend�s room? Get a hobby. 3.) Even if the heater was fucking on, I don�t give a shit that it�s 45 degrees out; we�re subterranean in the basement, you cow, so shut the fuck up and respect my sleep time. I don�t go tromping into your bedroom when you�re sleeping and start making a racket, do I? No.Sigh.
Add this to the fact that my girl parts are itching to be played with and not by me. I�ve been laid thrice since Sunday morning and it�s just not enough. Had the cow-in-law not come down here this morning, I probably would have gotten some, but no.
I am one mighty crabby girl today.
I told Luke last night that he has to start making us a priority and not playing video games all the fucking time. I almost would have preferred the computer constantly crashing because of video driver issues to him playing until I�m too tired and pissy to even want to look at him. I said that I wasn�t mad yet, but if things didn�t shortly improve, he�d have a nasty tempest on his hands.
He keeps saying �two more days� over and over again. I think it�s to help maintain my sanity and to also remind himself that he won�t have to deal with the public in a server environment for an entire 10 days or so. He says jokingly that I�ll get sick of him, but nothing could be farther from the truth. The truth is that I hate his being away during the day, that I ache to have him next to me, in the same room, the same building, the same town. In the year that we were both unemployed together, I never once got sick of him. Yes, we fought, sometimes horribly, but I never tired of his presence.
Two more days.
