Poor J. If I snap at him again, I think he's going to take the kitties and leave me forever. Actually, he'll probably leave me the cats, but he'll be gone.
He just can't do anything right, in my eyes. Every step, every breath, every move, it's all wrong. I wonder, does it mean something that I actually recognize my poor behavior? Maybe so, but hell if there's anything I can do to change it. Or want to do for that matter.
We work together, so the days that we're both in the office have been a alternate version of hell for him. Some excerpts from our oh-so-blissful time together:
"Stop chomping your gum in my ear ... it makes me want to puke." Said from fifteen feet away.
"You want me to what? To answer the phone? What gives your the right to tell me what to do?"
"Don't. Talk. To. Me."
"No, I don't like my pad thai. Stop scooping it off my plate. Stop! Stop! Stop it now, do you hear me? It's mine."
"You've got the sheets all inside out. Why can't you do this right? This corner goes here, this one here, this one..." collapsing into sobs.
Composure regained. Sniffle, pittiful smile. "Could you get me a ginger ale? I don't feel so good."
While happiness abounds in our household, my sheer exhaustion and on-again, off-again upset stomach is turning me into a real ogre. I've got to get it together before we have a whole household of marathon-running out of town guests this weekend!
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