Friends don't let friends knit drunk (ADULT CONTENT)

It is not often nowadays that I blog about personal stuff because I kind of did it to death a year or two ago but sometimes something happend that fucks me right off. So maybe while friends don't let friends knit drunk one should always bear in mind a few other little mantras. Let us consider some.

• Don't blog angry
• Regularly test your smoke alarm
• Always make sure you have contents insurance because you don't know what the stupid fucker you live with is going to do next
• Men don't change unless they are under 5 years old
• That which does not kill us may well make us stronger but is also going to piss me right off

The stupid twat came home paralytic last night. What kind of person reaches the age of 31 and still totally fails to recognise their own limits? He bursts in and immediately falls against the bedroom wall waking me and making the wardrobe shake. I fall back to sleep. I am guessing this is about 1.30am. I can't be sure but I think it is a good estimate. Because it was 1.50am when the smoke alarm went off. How long would you say it takes a fuckwit to stagger into the kitchen, find a pack of pikey super noodles, spill them open and into a saucepan, turn the hob on full blast, pass out on the sofa and for them to boil dry and burn to the point where they fill the flat with smoke and set the fire alarm off. I'm estimating 20 minutes.

I got up when the smoke alarm went off, as you do, and turned it off, turned off the hob, poured cold water into the smoking noodles and walked into the living room where the computer genius was. It took 20 seconds of rough shaking to rouse him. I actually kind of enjoyed that bit. You might think of that as a highlight. In hindsight I should have made more of that. I opened the window and went back into the kitchen to turn on the extractor fan and by the time I got back to the living room he'd got up, closed the window, and passed out again on the sofa. What a fucking retard.

This morning I got up and on my way to the bathroom heard my name being shouted from the spare room. "What's the matter" he says. "It wasn't so bad" he says. Wasn't so bad. I've had the windows open most of the morning and the place still stinks of burnt noodles. He had passed out and hadn't even stirred when the smoke alarm had gone off. We don't have any contents insurance because he said he'd sort it out 3 years ago and then did fuck all. He won't even sign his fucking 'death in service' insurance over to me even though we're fucking married. If he had managed to set fire to the kitchen, himself, the flat and most importantly my uninsured stash and even me in the bedroom I'd have been left with nothing except some memories of how fucking typical the whole thing was. It's also left me feeling slightly narked. Can you tell?

Now when he reads this he's going to be pissed off and use that to try and gain the upper hand in the grumpy stakes. But do you know what? I don't fucking care. I am so pissed off with him. I just booked a 5 star cruise down the nile for october. I should be happy. I should be floaty light. I should possibly stop using the word' should' so much since i regularly lecture others on how that kind of phrasing leads to depression and despair. Perhaps actually I 'should' just stop blogging and go and do something fun.