My landlady’s tenant

So I’ve completed Ellen’s narrative, now I have to switch to the third person free indirect style, from the perspective of an manipulative paedophile (you need Nabokov to explain this). It isn’t easy, but it needs to work. It’s only now that I recall specific events on which my concepts are based.

But you rewrite everything in a way that appears to be new but supported by your original idea. Still, you have witnessed something in the past, and you realise that your imagination is somewhat connected to the jelly inside you (Symington). And over the years, you attempt to harden up the jelly. It takes time.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I haven’t received my thesis results. And Maria, the secretary, is ignoring my emails. However, before I get them, I’d like to have the novel finished in case of demoralization when reading Goldsmiths’ critical comments.

Having a corporate job for almost two months, I must say I have adapted well despite certain hectic levels within the working environment. People are starting to let me “in” because of my integration and because I’m an early bird. I feel a lot more comfortable now.

I’ve noticed certain factors that are generally related to human relationships. No matter if friends, collaborators, or partners, when it comes to money, you realise that a certain extent of discretion is required.

This is why you NEVER ask a friend to lend you money and never lend money to them.

Business, eh?

What a despicable word; I’ve learned a lot in the last two months – from being scammed to being decently traditionally hired. I thought I had my own rules for the survival game, but more rules are added to the game when it comes to earning money. (Note that rules are ok when you set them.) The good thing is that you’re not required to be insincere, you just shut your mouth, and I have no problems with that. I keep my mouth shut about many things. Often, if I do say something, it comes out the wrong way. (You remember my blog on Lars.)

Sometimes I know what people want to hear, but I won’t say it. If I feel like deceiving them, I pretend we share the same opinion, and they’ll be like, “You and I are the same!”
Yes. We are sooo similar.

Is that the purpose of blending in, Dexter? Quite useful sometimes, isn’t it? Unlike you, I don’t want to be like them.

They call me a “loner,” but this word derives from “lonely,” so don’t fucking call me that.

I admit I’ve been very selfish, treating my friends terribly. They invite me; I decline them. They text me; I ignore them. I need to keep in mind that when declining them, I shouldn’t give reasons. Whenever I give reasons, I seem to be dragging them into my business.

The room in my life has become so small; I can’t even fit myself in, let alone a friend? I need more room.

I understand they all want to talk, but the thing with me is – I don’t. That’s the problem. You know what it’s like being around people with whom you can’t be you. They don’t realise that they have a problem with who you are. They might accept you for who you are, but they don’t like it, and they will ask you to make an exception for at least a day. For instance, a friend invites you to her wedding, despite knowing you hate weddings. And they ask you to pull a happy face for at least a day. It’s difficult and exhaustive for the mind.

I went to the wedding to not come across as selfish, but not more needs to be said. I won’t attend any other ones, not even my own.

Green tea has saved my life, at least in the last two months. My angry sentiments have returned. And I knew they would. I clench my fists for no particular reason. No matter what I do to become a better person for myself, I seem to grow immune to all those…good drugs, my conscience does. Everything loses effect, quickly. It’s as if this horrible thing can’t wait to salute me for real.

I was flat hunting again and surprisingly found something really fast.

There’s no way I’m going to extend my current contract. My landlady had a massive argument with her son the other week – and this seems to happen often unless it’s standard in their family. Apart from that, she has her granddaughter over every damn weekend. She squealed like a pig the other week; I’ve no idea what she was crying about, but a kid’s cry is so haunting. Besides, I envy them too much to be around them.

Do I still want to be her tenant?

When my landlady and her son were arguing downstairs, I went to the bathroom and saw the girl in my landlady’s room. She was sad. In fact, I don’t hate her that much. I prefer her quiet.

But there are several other reasons why I don’t wish to extend my contract. My landlady turns small talk into small talk “conversation.” If the sun’s shining, she’d go on about the sunshine yesterday or last week, last month. Sun will probably shine tomorrow, too or next weekend.

A small-talk turns into a thirty-minute conversation. I can’t take it any longer, even if it’s just once or twice a week.

I’d rather you enquire about my sex life. Or how about you tell me what you and your son always argue about?

Also, every month I have to ask her to top up my metre for electricity. Every time it shows “40 pence left”, I get nervous about the food in my fridge. And she would say it’s enough for another day and a half.

So she’s only going to top up once the metre has gone CLICK? Yes. That happened over a week ago. And she was not in. I was sitting in the dark, typing until my laptop battery went off. This made me feel more horrible about my life than I already did.

I wish I had the money to live on my fucking own. Give me some space. How much I love my friends, I have to admit I’m glad to be alone. Sometimes instead of going for a coffee with someone, I’d rather walk through the cemetery and steal beautiful names so that I can create a new life for them in a story.

Next month, I will be living with a quiet landlord with a strange personality, but he’s reliable, quiet and clean – there’s nothing more I look for in a flatmate. He says he is hardly ever home, even better. And when he is, I’ll only get to see him in the kitchen. I like the sound of that.

You’re anxious that I chose to live with a man who, on the behavioural level, is similar to me? It was either him or extend the contract with that landlady who started praying hysterically every morning on her king-size bed.

If God was the truth, why would people always call it The Ugly Truth?

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