apropos of nothing

There's so much to do today, but nothing that I have to do; it's all on me, whether I do this right or not, whether I get it all done, and I hate days like this. I always end up disappointing myself.

It kind of pissed me off yesterday, running through the house unfucking it and finally getting somewhere, like with things that have bugged me for months or years or forever and watching them go away and actually stay clean for a whole day.

And she was like, "Oh, thank you! I want you to know that we notice," and I fired back "Who cares?" under my breath before I could even catch myself. I'm just lucky she didn't hear.

Pretty sure the psychs would tell me, "You have trouble accepting compliments and it stems from when you were a child and didn't get enough hugs."

But you know something? It was just this instant, reflexive, white-hot flash-in-the-pan of entitled rage.

Fuck you, I'm not cleaning the place for you, I'm doing it for myself 'cause I'm sick of living in a goddamn dump and I'm tired of waiting for someone else to clean it; fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

In sum: my motives are rather less love-starved and rather more selfish.

I would like to write today, but not fandom, but I do hope to climb into his head eventually, to descend a staircase, naked, and lick those wounds into a fine and festering kind of anguish.

Just to review: call driving school, fix financial aid, pay bills, do minimum cleaning, try to write, pray for rain.