bleagh!

I've just spent the best part of three days cleaning the house because family are coming to visit, including my stepmother, who is a lovely woman but has STANDARDS. Two binbags full and the recycling bin up to the brim with paper (GOD WHY DO PEOPLE POST ME THINGS, FUCK OFFFFFF WITH YOUR BROCHURES AND BANK STATEMENTS AND BIRTHDAY CARDS, ALL IN FRIGGING ENVELOPES THAT NEED THE FUCKING ADDRESS TEARING OUT BEFORE YOU CAN CHUCK THEM, AND THEN WHAT DO YOU DO WITH THE FUCKING BITS WITH THE ADDRESS ON???) and a hoover gone pfft (good excuse to get a bagless one, emptying them is nasty but at least you don't have to have an eidetic memory for which of the 50000000 practically identical but actually incompatible bags you have to buy).
Apparently one is supposed to feel all cathartic and calm and lord of infinite space with a clean house, but I just feel knackered and resentful. (And I know that the house is still cluttered by the standards of a neat freak with a cleaner, [let alone all the decorating that still needs doing] but FUCK IT, I'M NOT DOING ANY MORE BASTARD TIDYING, I still have to clean the bathroom and make three beds.) What a waste of life! And then I'm supposed to cook for the buggers as well, and like, go out and spend time with them, when I just want to SLEEP.

And I've just finished the last of the chocolate vodka.