Somebody's got to do it.
I'm in the office today, more out of a need to get out of the house than for feeling well enough to be here. After nine days straight, I was ready to kill the roommate for any number of ills. I almost snapped yesterday when he mentioned "hopping Frenchman's disease" after complaining about how the dust in the apartment was making him ill and jacking up the heat to unbearable for the nth time that day. I keep wanting to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him, but I know it won't do any good. He's become an old man.