16 April 2000 ~ Road rage...

I can't believe I'm writing this... I can't believe I'm thnking this.

I do not like my housemate. I do not like him, Sam I am.

He calls me at my work and accuses me of stealing twenty dollars from him when he knows damned well I've got a LOT more money than he does and a hell of a lot more integrity. Plus, he orders a CD that he fucking knows he can't afford, when he owes me in excess of $800 for rent and bills.

...And, in the process, he says something that causes my boss to angrily state, "your housemate's on the phone; you know, he's a real asshole."

Tonight he told Jeff that the only reason I was getting dressed up and dyeing my hair and cutting it (it looks fantastic, guys, seriously!) was to impress Chris. Uh... no. I dressed up because it's fun to dress up. I cut my hair because it needed it. I dyed it because I wanted to look a little different. And if Chris, who is still a total babe, not to mention a really nice person, happened to turn his head my way, I would have smiled cutely and waved. But as it worked out, since I knew there was a rumor about my wee-crushy on Chris, I held back, didn't sit near him, didn't dance near him, didn't even look him in the eyes. What would people think? It's one thing to have a wee-crushy and like, hope that things happen, and let them happen if they start to happen; it's an entirely different thing to have a highly-public wee-crushy where you're trying to make things happen. I was so angry at Peter. He had to ruin this for me too. And then I had to write a letter of apology to Chris, because I just know he's going to hear that I'm some kind of psycho-tigress out to catch him and feed on him or something. I thought I'd explain before it got that far.

There are feathers and wigs all over my apartment. There are gay-magazines all over my apartment. There are dishes all over my apartment even though I haven't eaten a meal here since WELL before the last time I did dishes...

He comes onto Jeff, he comes onto any piece of trash in the bar that will look at him twice... He swears he's given up sex because he feels objectified, but he'll make it look like he's fucking everybody because it pisses me off and hurts my feelings. He won't have sex with me anymore because he doesn't love me anymore.

He won't admit he's the one who gave me this disease I have -- the disease that prompted my doctor to write me a letter saying, "make an appointment for follow-up care or there's a good chance your problem could come back, ultimately causing cancer." Yes, he gave it to me. YES, he's got it. But since he feels fine and has no symptoms, he swears it wasn't him. Yep, I must just be a little tramp, enh?

He didn't care that I tried to kill myself. He cared that people yelled at him because they thought it was his fault.

He doesn't give a shit about me.

And he needs to move out.

He isn't paying bills, he isn't making my life easier or nicer or calmer or friendlier in any way. He doesn't love me, he doesn't treat me like he cares about me, he adds nothing to our relationship. Our relationship is a very abusive one. He's not an abusive person; I will not say that. But the relationship is an abusive one. The obvious answer is to fucking throw him out of my life for good.

The only problem is, when I do that, there will be nobody left: a small group of friends that is, in all fairness, more HIS group of friends than mine.

I want somebody to help me move on; not a rebound or somebody to use and throw away, but somebody to see me through a major transition... I cannot do it alone. I know I can't. I've tried. I want somebody to fall asleep next to me for those times when I can't sleep because I'm wondering where he is and what he's doing. I want somebody to kiss me goodnight, a thought so gloriously delicious that it could completely take my mind off Peter, losing Peter, and everything in between.

I am so unhappy.

~Helena*

"It's all over the front page, you give me road rage..." --Catatonia, one of Mike's favorite bands