Some days I think living alone with Lucy would be much better than whatever you call this.

Try to read a book and The Curmudgeon absolutely HAS TO talk to the TV and expects me to be listening to him so I can comment on his blithering.

Try to cook and The Curmudgeon HAS TO get under foot–worse than the dog.

Hell, I can’t even go to the bathroom in peace.

I am constantly having to clean up after him including wiping off jelly he’s left on the fridge handle. It’s like living with a large three-year-old.

I am honestly tired of it.

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