I've been kicked out of the sharehouse. I need a new home in a month. Those are the salient facts, and the remainder of this post may be significantly less salient because frankly, I'm pissed.
This not purely by design. I was given, unusually, some vodka for Christmas by my brother. I have no idea why. But tonight seemed as good a time as any to crack it open when I was invited for a drink, but the problem with me and alcohol is that I'm a goody-two-shoes. I never partook until I was of a legal age to do so. The problem with this, is you're left with a pressure to drink but a complete dearth of background knowledge, so when I make a screwdriver from HAMMER UND SICKEL mixed with budget breakfast juice, I have no idea what the proportions are.... save with the power of hindsight I am now applying.
That said, I didn't expect the conversation I got. Which was "We don't like you, we want you to fuck off" worded in a myriad of more flattering ways such as "It's clear to use that you're really not that happy here..." and other blatantly false bullshit. As I point out, I'm suicidally depressed. Where am I going to happy? On the bridge of the Millenium Fucking Falcon when it's been refit as a brothel?
The lies were so disgustingly transparent that for about ten minutes I felt no obligation to reply. I mean, really, what is the fucking point? I know what you're saying, you obviously know what you're saying, what is the value of me saying anything in response? Because of this I did nothing but drink in reply. And hence my brain cells were treated like Soviet peasants. Oh, how the typoes and vitriol flows!
To be fair to my Dutch lease-holder, he then made me join him for another drink so that we could part on more civil terms... which is nice to a point I suppose.
.... I don't know why I figured I'd be able to write a blog entry four sheets to the wind when I've been consistently unable to do it while sober throughout the entire year, but I'm in the middle of it now, aren't I? It turns out that my flow-of-consciousness style doesn't work well in concert with a steady intake of fermented vegetable roots designed to erode at the sensibilites of consciousness. If only I was a Doctor of Medicine I could have worked this out before hand.
The point is... I'm fucking depressed. I guess. In as much as there's a point to anything. I was hoping this would be a good year, what with me going into it with a job, a house, a purpose and new friends - now two of the four has been cruelly and suddenly cut away. What am I meant to think? When things are going well my mind still wanders to "Why don't I just slice them a little and see if THAT improves things?" for shits and giggles. Am I meant to take this as a sign everything else will be bettter?
My contract at work is up in the air. I have no idea where I could be going to live. I have no idea if I can get a job anywhere else.
...but really, the idea that *I* of the Holy Trinity of Complete Arseholes that has occupied this accursed ant-infested domicile is the worst is what wrankles the most. I get told I 'never do any work'. The knowledge that every single fucking fortnight that I cleaned the bathroom, every day that I did the washing up and drying, every time I hung out Simon's fucking washing counts for absolutely nothing, the times I bought ant poison and laid it, that I did the shopping, that I put my money into a party were for nothing and the money I could have saved by doing absolutely nothing during the time.
I mean, where's the award for being a selfless person when you get treated like a complete prick at the end of it all anyway? That's been the problem with the Universe. No fucking Karma.
God damnit, this is why I related to Salieri a frightening amount when I watched Amadeus. You act like a complete prick and you still get the glory. Ergo, I should strart poisoning people I don't like. Logic isn't always your friend, I guess, and especially so when you're drunk off your tits.
Wondering about what I do from here? Do I become the total cunt I'm meant to have been, or keep up my nice guy behaviour, even play it up? Definitely drawn to the former at the moment. I mean, what are they going to do? Kick me out of the house? Oh wait *SINISTER MAWFUCKING LAUGH*
Option c is murdering them all. I haven't been thinking about it that much, really. BUT his ex-girlfriend is co-holder of the lease so I'd get to see her again and she's pretty hot. Plus doesn't seem to mind me. What better conversation starter than "You know the guy who ripped out his spleen and fed it to him? I'm close to him. REAALLLLY CLOSE."
Never rely on the kindness of internet strangers. They're pricks.