I can't just close the door and walk away, can I

The week is finafuckingly over; my mother has left in a flurry of empty shopping bags; the flat looks like it’s been hit by hurricane Trevor or Mildred, or whatever affectionate name it’d be called if we had hurricanes this side of the Atlantic. This morning’s plan is to turn myself into the Incredible Cleaning Fairy and sort it all out, then get out of my crumpled, smelly old pyjamas and into clean clothes so that I can feel human again. Attractive, huh? I’m still ill, coughing and spluttering and weary-faced and in no position or frame of mind to go out and see fellow humans. Instead, when this pit is scrubbed clean and so I am, I will knock back large quantities of tea, bully the cat onto my lap, and dwell over last night’s dreams. My resolve to not think of her is about the consistency of lumpy custard, and the dreams don’t help. I’ve had the intense fuck dreams of course; the warm and fluffy dreams of love; the drama/arguing dreams; the sorting it all out dreams; the dream where I’m standing in her bedroom waiting for something to happen.
I really have to stop being so available, really.

« I don’t want to go back to school because at school they teach me things I don’t already know.” (Ernest, Les enfants, Marguerite Duras, 1984)