Why I Hate Thursdays...

He's such a nit-picker.

Pick. Pick.

Pick.

And then there can be the total exact opposite- in his absolute ignorance of my entire presence.

When I confront him with anything he runs to bed; and if I don't leave him alone then- there is trouble. He gets to Thursday's and gets ready Not to let me forget the last weekend just past- for whatever reason (my not coming home, or drinking too much, being late, sleeping all day when I earn nothing, wasting money when there's nothing much been 'bought' etc). Any other day it seems he takes no interest in my life. Or how I feel. He just notices the things that haven't got done.

Thursdays. I hate them.

Don't expect me to change things if you won't. If You don't have a problem with our Life then I better not hear about another one. You had your chance to go to counselling if you wanted to point out what was wrong about me.

You missed the proverbial boat.

The next time that you tell me to leave I will.

I don't know that we will ever be happy together again. I had a dream about it the other night. In it- my Hubby had completly boarded over the fly-screens on our verandah. It's the only place in the house that I really like- I like to sit there and smoke and think and write. It's where I talk to the Rosellas. I like the fact that I can sit out there in the morning sun, naked except for my black Vodka Cruiser baseball cap- plucking my bikini line or trying to unravel Soduko and cryptic crosswords playing radio contests and just chilling.

I dream-pummelled him when I 'saw' what he had done to my own private Idaho. I was screaming, crying- telling him he had to make it the same as what it was- my green and yellow oasis.

"Why can't Anything be the way I want it?" He screamed back in my dream.

"I'M the one who has to sit out here with Only this to look at. You CAN'T take it. Please Don't!!"

Then imagine a lot of hysterical dream-crying and pleading. I wonder what it all means?

I mean, I don't have a job- what else is there? At least I'm not spending any money or anything. It doesn't matter if I wash clothes at five am or at five pm as long as it gets done eventually.

Still. Even when I'm relaxed I'm uptight. If there's nothing wrong with my physical health then I'm going to have to ask the doctors to give me some anxiety medicication for my burgeoning paranoia. I'm fixated on the pangs and twangs of my body. I don't feel physically well enough to even go look for work- and yet ironically, perk up each Friday arfternoon to party long and hard with my friends.

Strangely, or not, this partying hard is having it's effects on my thirty-two year old body. Just Jeff gave me a hug hello the other night and noticed the painful wince. I was in pain. I am. I was in pain before my Hubby squashed me flat three weeks ago. My lungs have been bothering me for nine months- and I haven't stopped smoking a dot no matter how much I tell myself I need to slow up. I can feel it slowly killing me. Honestly.

I'm going to put it in my will that my diaries get buired with me; encased in lead or marble or something that will preserve their condition- I want my head propped up on them like a pillow- so that when the flesh dies I will still have my head there- left on top of my Thoghuts. And who knows? If I survive to be a mummy in five thousand years they can read about my Life. Hello Strange Society. It is currently two thousand and six. How is it going in seven thousand and six? How much is extinct since I was around?

Pathetic.

I know....