[Sundae]

Mum insisted I clean my room this weekend. This is less because it "completely stinks" - it wasn't tidy but there is nothing in there to stink. Clean bedding to go on, pile of clothes I'd been meaning to try on, some paperwork on floor. It's more because she likes to assert control and slag me off to her witch-friends who advocate throwing me out of the street as tough love.

Narcolepsy aside I managed a turn this morning and this afternoon with a sleep in between. The sleep was my bad; I sat down. Lazy of course.

In the mean time my bro came round with his holiday snaps. At this point I'm shaking and nauseous and know I will fall asleep if I sit down again, so I decline. They're all jammed into the spare room as Dad has now "tidied away" all the camera-card-TV connections, not just mine. Upstairs-hoover is on far side of the room, no way I can get it out without much kerfuffle and trust me I really wasn't making a big deal of things. I just wanted to get it done so she could shut her pie-hole and I could get back to sleep.

Done. Took about 2 hours in total, but it was done to the nth degree and also involved a clothes-trying-on-session for tomorrow evening, changing my bedclothes, giving Diz's tray a deep clean (because one of the the witch-frinds believes Diz "pisses and shits everywhere" because I don't keep his tray clean, rather than because he cannot deal with sharing a house with another cat). Came back downstairs with downstairs-hoover and empty litter tray. Slipped. Not surprising. Currently unable to walk in a straight line or get through a spoken or written sentence correctly. Crash, bang, wallop.

"OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE! BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR FATHER YOU'RE DRIVING ME MAD!"
"i think you were mad already" I respond tonelessly, lying in the purple shards of Diz's clean and broken tray.
"OH GREAT YOU BROKE IT"
"I'll replace it. It's just the tray, your hoover is fine."

At which point I think she remembers Steven is upstairs.
"Did you break anything?"
"no"

Back to photo viewing leaving me to sort the debris.

Now I know I have kinda suggested it was her fault. And I know it wasn't.
I know.
It wasn't. It's just more and more these days, walking in through the front door feels like going down the rabbithole.

Anyway, at least I wasn't screamed at like Dad; he fell in the bathroom the other night.
I'm pretending that I can believe she wasn't overly rough while getting him up. Not physically at least, my earplugs dealt with the verbal. And he bruises spectaculary after falling and hitting his ribs arm and head.

Oh I added to some of my curent bruises from falling about, into doors, into the dishwasher at work, into the trays in Bake-Off. Opened up my two burns - blue plasters tomorrow. Nothing significant, just ouchies. Too flat to even cry. Yay medication.