Tears on my pillow

It takes quite a lot for me to get so upset about something that it makes me cry.

But this morning, my flatmates managed it with ease. Not content with constantly disturbing my sleep pattern with their bedroom antics, it would seem that my contribution to the household isn't quite how they would like it. My rent is paying for their utility bills (at their own admission, might I add), and I myself contribute as much as is physically possible to the chores, despite being awkwardly confined to my bedroom most of the time (from where I'm writing this post).

They went away on Sunday morning, and returned last night. Rather than notice that I'd done a lot to clean up the kitchen, which is filthy as a result of the renovations they started last week - namely knocking down interior walls resulting in an insane amount of dust everywhere, particularly in the unprotected kitchen -, this morning they hang on the fact that the bathroom and toilet floor hasn't been mopped. Yes, that's right, because of all the dust throughout the rest of the flat, the bathroom and toilet floors don't stay clean for long. And so given that I was out all day Monday and working yesterday, the bathroom and toilet floors haven't been mopped since Sunday. Oh dear, that should surely result in a penalty rent rise, don't you think?

Now, normally I would just take this on the chin, and grin and bear being called "evil", "a villain", "lazy". But this morning that's just not possible. Not when I had to use my mobile phone to guide me through my apartment when I got in last night so that I didn't walk into the fridge or get electrocuted by hanging live wires. This is the last straw. There seem to be no niceties passed between me and them any more: our only topic of conversation is whether or not I've done the housework in the last six hours.

J'en ai marre. J'ai ras-le-bol. Je n'en peux plus. Faites-moi quitter cet apart. J'en ai marre de ce putain d'inquiétude. Mais qu'est-ce que je peux faire en fait? I don't have a plan B...