by I can’t get away from my flatmate. There seem to be at least four of him. If only he (they?) could pay me accordingly. A hundred bucks a day and I’d happily give them 24/7 access to every room of my apartment while I sleep in the car. I’d probably (seriously) get more sleep than I do now. I average about 90 minutes less per night than before my flatmates all piled in. The problem is the sheer amount of interaction required, with the same person (people?), each and every day. With no chance to replenish my tank, I’m now running on empty (that’s a link to a song that appeared on Forrest Gump; sorry if the different colour for links isn’t showing up in your browser). My mind and body are shutting down. I might as well not have shown up to work today.
The whole arrangement is far too hands-on and it’s affecting every aspect of my life. There’s no escape, whether I’m at work, at the supermarket (now that’s stressful), at the tennis club, in the car, or even when I’m on a different island. At this rate I’m not going to Romania or very far at all. (Remember when I used to write about learning the language? By some bizarre coincidence that finished at about the same time as my living situation changed.)
I had a discussion with one of my flatmates at the weekend. He now knows I want him and his gaggle of friends out before September, but has no idea quite how soon. I’ll have to hit him with a May termination date in the hope that he agrees to June. Any later than that and my plans will be in tatters. None of this is easy. What a mess I’ve got myself into. The thing is, I’m not depressed, but I’m very anxious and in a permanent state of fatigue.
I don’t know how I won my singles match at the weekend.
