Duckfucking

Life feels like a shit sandwich buffet at the moment. The atmosphere of this fucking place is like Mexico City, with visibly yellow air; the fishermen are rioting; cocksucking shitwit Belgacom is still trying to defraud us; and the F-word has been being stalked by a black dog - painful to watch, and the corollary is that I feel absolutely alone in terms of organizing our vacations, disputing our fraudulent bills, grocery shopping, general household maintenance, etc, at a time when I'm absolutely exhausted from last week's junket and this week's deadline.

And then yesterday I grabbed his laptop to google 'Jews New York Jesse Jackson' ('Hymietown', he'd called it - I couldn't remember), and as I started to type the memory function called up a search phrase with my name in it that rather took me aback. I combed my porous memory for a time I could have used it myself for whatever vanitygoogle reasons and couldn't come up with one, which doesn't mean it didn't exist. Nonetheless, I was thrown on the possibility, which had never really crossed my mind before, that the F-word is not sure of my fidelity. I'd rather break my own nose than be unfaithful to him but I don't know how to bring that up in casual conversation. And then there's the possibility such worries are inevitable, no matter what assurances are given and received, because I travel for work a good deal. And when someone is absent for such lengths of time, especially to attend subsidized drinking events where the boy:girl ratio is 5:1, maybe it's hard not to wonder. That 5:1 ratio may be a more concrete bit of knowledge than the abstract fact that all those boys are unattractive. I've never met anybody at these functions who I'd have nailed even if I was on the prowl - there's something, as far as I'm concerned, fundamentally anti-sexy about business events, something just too groomed piggy.

But the bitch of it all is that there's probably some perfectly lighthearted explanation, and I'm just adding another section to an already overwhelmingly comprehensive shit sandwich buffet with this sort of double-edged paranoia. I'll sort it out. But fuck, fuck, fuck, am I ever tired of sorting things out. There's so much to sort out just living in this stupid fucking mentally feeble grinning cocksucker of a country, and while I know I need to put this central and most important relationship with the man I adore above and beyond concerns over our telephone service provider gouging us for hundreds of euros or how we're going to spend my all-too-short summer vacation, I feel like I'm trying to compose a symphony in a zoo while dodging all the shit cackling schizo monkeys are tossing at me.