I can literally feel his eyes on the computer screen behind my back as I'm typing. I'm being completely serious. Good thing I know his eye sight isn't good enough to read this far away.
I already spent most of my day driving around the old and the invalid to and from their physical therapy appointments only to come home and not be able to sit down and watch my stories. My "awesome driving skills" (as he so ball-lickingly put it) were needed to beat the sunset so he could take pictures for the real estate agency he part-times for. I love how well he attaches himself to my sack and just swings off them for the duration of the favor he needs from me.
Four hours later I'm back home catching up on television spoilers, internet porn, and super poking straight guys I fucked in high school, and grammar school, and with every damn click of the mouse I have to explain what I'm looking at. "Anything good?" "How bout now?"
Muthafucker how bout I let you know if I come across anything I deem important to your knowing?
He finally manages to annoy me off the computer with his fifth time suggesting we watch InfoMania. Funny how full of helpful ways to internet he is when I'm at the keyboard.
So I sit down and play text message therapist for my friend Bernie who'se dealing with some serious man issues of her own and I get a new text. From him. From the couch. Right next to me.
Seriously?
Why is a four hour silence acceptable when he's checking his myspace and downloading music and chatting but the moment I get in front of the screen he manages to position himself somewhere behind me so he can keep an eye on what I'm doing?
Have I mentioned how completely unattractive hypocrisy is in those I choose to surround myself with?
When the hell did I get married? Oh yeah, when I agreed to let him move in.
Thanks, Bobby.
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