"Miss Martha, you are so weird!" "I know . . . isn't it wonderful!?"

And . . .

. . . I typed too soon last night.


He blew up because the torte didn’t come out right.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  Screaming, berating, name-calling.  Yeah.  Over food.  Sooooo rational.  (Can you smell the sarcasm?)


Then he yelled at me because the smell of my tea “makes me sick” so I took my tea and my computer, and went upstairs for the night.  I don’t mind living in my bedroom . . . I just don’t want to share it with him anymore.
AND . . . I don’t think that I should have to retreat in a house that I PAY FOR.


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