A coupla hours later

I'm playing my Christmas mix. Well, one of them. I made two. I'm going to give them to the PFW(c) for a present. One is electronica and the other is more acoustic, with the emphasis on the words rather than the bass line. They're from all the albums I acquired during 2005. I spent all day yesterday making it.

I'm really hungry, but psychoB has taken over the kitchen to make the most disgusting fried sandwich in the world. It appears to made up of a layer of bread, upon which are layered tinned tomatoes, fried mushrooms, onions, cheese, which he then microwaved twice and a fried egg on top of that.

The house stinks.

He's nearly finished. He's trying to put pepper on it at the moment, but there's no pepper in the pepper mill, because I hid my stache. I dreamt last night that he found my blog and has started a revenge blog against me because I bitch about him so much. Stranger things have happened in this little corner of heaven on earth.

I found a new way to torment him last night. He places his empty beer cans in a row on the kitchen windowsill when he's drinking every night. And then puts them in the recycle bin in the morning. Last night when I got in from the pub at 1.30am, he only had one or two up, so I put them in the recycle bin for him and went to bed. Then a few minutes later, he went into the kitchen and started ranting at himself and I think he took them back out and replaced them.

So of course I couldn't resist the temptation to get a glass of water.

I've been on the phone for the last while. Very interesting. The epicaricacy has been replaced by compassion and understanding. Well, some of it anyways.

The rest of it is bopping frenziedly around my bedroom to Madge's excellent disco beats at the moment.

I'm not a bad person. Really.

Gotta go eat now. And then I'm going to watch The Big Chill.


(c) PFW is a TLS devised, owned and patented by Ian Moore. It means People From Work.