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.