Because when something isn't quite a pain in the ass, but more an irritation of the rectal region, perhaps due more to a shitty conjunction of circumstance allowed to continue too long, it's more like diaper rash than anger.
I'm a little irritated, is what I'm saying.
I get home, to blog, to pick up my mail, to clean up a bit, and do some horrid girly beauty treatments that one absolutely has to be absolutely alone to do (but which are entirely necessary), and I slowly come to the realization: My roommate, as expected, is at work. My roommate's boyfriend is still here.
She's not home. I haven't really been home in weeks; yet there is a stranger here, spoiling my solitude, who does not pay rent.
I can't commit my reeking ablutions, with a stranger here. Or, rather, I will be confined to the hot, sweaty, disgusting bathroom.
And it's my fault, for 1. Never setting a policy on who can be here when we are not here.
2. Not warning my roommate that as this is my apartment, I reserve the right to be here any time.
It's important that I mention, though....
I really like this guy, this boyfriend. I think he's keen, I think their relationship is sweet, I think it's all really nice.