For Fuck's Sake.

The fact that my brain hasn't exploded this week is a minor miracle.

I did some hard soul searching, consulted the inner sanctum, and came to the conclusion that I didn't want to live with the regret of not trying to fix my marriage. So I called the bastard fella, and let him know. However, I also put down a few provisos - that I would NOT attempt to start where we left off, that I felt we had lost each other and why we were together in the first place, and that we should start dating again, to make it fresh and new and fall in love all over again.

His response?

"Date? We're husband and wife."

I should have known from that statement it was never going to work, that he wouldn't be willing to even discuss what our issues were, much less work on them.

A couple of days later, after hearing nothing (when he said ERMAHGERD! WE NEED TO TALK FOR AN HOUR A NIGHT TO SAVE OUR MERRERRGE!), he told me that he thought it would be for the best if I went ahead and filed.

Oh, so you love me, huh? You want your family back, huh?

Fuck you, you fucking fuck.

...

On a happier note, I moved into the house this weekend. It's a little bare, since a lot of my things are in storage back east, but it's home. MY home. The home of Quinn and I. Just us. The first night he did awesome. Night two was a clusterfuck of massive proportions, resulting in him being awake from 11-6, napping until 9, and falling asleep at 545. Hence, I was at home today. On a more stressful note, nights like last night make me fear for my job. This can't become a frequent occurrence, or I'll be let go for not being able to come to work. Fortunately, my supervisor is understanding, but shit, I'd fire me too if I could never be at work because I couldn't stay awake.

Should this become common, what the fuck do I do? How will we live? This is the monster under my bed.

Speaking of bed, that's where I need to be.