Where has the last month go.

With nothing better to do, I holed up in the flat. i sat around, initially tinkering with the script, even further, and half heartedly making some notes. It was difficult to muster any energy, indecently enervated by my recent excursions and my recent disengagement from the twinkling towers of Cunt and Cunt, solicitors. AS if I should, as I should really feel that I am suddenly without focus. My god, it freaked me, perhaps that job, at which I was, at best, mediocre, defined me in some way. I suppose, in may ways, it was like a bad break up, an unresolved break up, and I’ve had many of them. The coping mechanism kick in. the booze, the hair cuts.

It didn’t help that Rhonda had moved in. apparently. After that night she was there the following day. That night she made pablum fare that insulted the very utensils she used, and tyrannised my weary bones, with as much dexterity as a paedophile on a swing. I couldn’t stop this horrowshow, au contraire, I was in it’s thrall, like some stupefied pointyhead, sitting agoggle with a carton of popcorn on my lap. Ah Rhonda. My initial attraction to her was that I was repelled by her. She has a linp personality and when she gets naked she looks like a bag of spuds wrapped in a shower curtain. But I couldn’t get enough of it, besotted by my utter disdain for her. It’s a worrying trait, and after two weeks of poor food and too much booze I had an epiphany.

I’m just going out for a pack of smokes, I said.

I’ve left home. Can I ever go back? I’m hoping that now, after a week or so, alone in MY home that she’s taken the hint. But every time I call the phone, she fucking answers. What am I to do?