My very own soap opera

I'm sitting here, at this seedy back-alley internet "cafe", hiding.

My apartment situation is best avoided. It's my own doing, or undoing as usual. He, my flatmate, started off fine. A nice guy, just not the kind of person I like to spend vast amounts of time with, or even any time really. A salesmanny bloke, pot head, mid-forties, never leaves the telly- in fact, the first thing he does when he wakes up in the morning is yep, switch it on, loud. That noise to me now is like fingernails slowly screaming down a chalkboard.

I can wish I was more tolerant, but I'm just not.

The pros, the room is dirt fucking cheap. The cons, the dirt. He does like my kitten, which elevates him in my eyes, but he's a little too attached. In that now he seems to have taken a possessive stance, and keeps warning me (joking- but with an odd tone for joking) that if I ever leave, the cat won't be allowed to. He's also taken to buying shit for the cat- a 60 dollar monstrosity of a scratching post, special bowls, ultra-expensive cat meat etc.

Presently, he's moping around huffing and puffing, sighing, cursing, depressed. And I know why.

He depressed because of me. Because of two stupid, drunken nights, one with e thrown in for good measure, when I shagged him. I feel sick to think of it, let alone admit it. I don't know why I did it. I don't have a clue. Why would I sleep with someone I'm not remotely attracted to? He was there. Saying yes was easier than saying no. The empty feeling I don't know how to fix without drugs. I'm an idiot. I'm trying to feel something again. I'm a dirty whore. Bad excuses really. I think I'm just weak.

If it had just been a shag, something fun, move-on, forget it, that wouldn't be so bad. That's what I wanted at the time. But it's my bloody flatmate for fuck's sake. And worse, someone I know is lonely and craves love, a girlfriend, a family. And here I am, ready-made to slot into his dreams. Again (like with so many men) it's not so much that it's ME, it's the idea of me. There is no such thing as strings-free sex.

I don't have the internet at home, as I'm planning (surprise!) to move out as soon as I find somewhere okayish, and I can't write this sort of crap at work, hence my long absence. My month trial is over already, it feels like a week. I was not in top form. Chronically tired. Weak, self-hatred filled moments of shooting-up in the bathroom. Late. Foggy-headed. Ineloquent. But I guess my good spells outweighed the dodgyness, because they didn't seem to notice. I'm on fulltime forever now, with a chunky raise to make my salary even more silly. Now I just really need to learn to save, and feel proud of myself.

It's nice to unscramble my thoughts and put them down for you out there. I've missed it. Hopefully you'll hear again from me soon.

Thanks for sticking around.