Monday Monday (Ba-da ba-da-da-da)

(Extra brownie-points for those who catch the reference in the title of this post ;-) )

Another Monday morning, another week gone, another week I've failed to get a job. I'm thinking of making a new week resolution (new year being, mercifully, too far away) to stop me from getting disheartened with my situation. Something specific, to allow me to make the best of the time I have and use it as an opportunity to give my dreams one last shot. I realise this completely contradicts my argument to the world that the "unemployed yoof" of today are not wasting time pursuing doomed creative projects. But what's life without a little contradiction-in-terms? Sod it.

Also, the cleaner is still here and I HAVE managed to shower and start the day. Admittedly, I still scurried around the house so as to avoid a semi-dressed-at-mid-morning encounter, but it's all progress.

Baby steps, baby steps.

Sixinthefuckingmorning

I am not a morning person. Nor have I ever claimed to be one. I can barely function on less than eight hours sleep and struggle to form sentences without at least two cups of coffee inside me. As I write this I am half way through my first mug and the effort of typing is giving me a headache worthy of Othello.

I am awake because my utter shit of a housemate came home at six this morning and, finding himself locked out of his room once again, decided it was acceptable to shoulder his way in, then play music so loud the chair I am sat on is vibrating. I (and believe me, I say this with utter spite) hate him. I'm sure he will apologise, and appear genuinely remorseful for this, but this time it's not good enough. In a few hours (because I am aware of which hours are acceptable and which are not) I will call the landlord and inform him that, one way or another, my relationship with this person will end and we will no longer refer to each other as 'housemate'. He's on his final warning as it is, having already lost said landlord three tenants in the past.

So long, dickhead.