The McBastard in Me

I pissed off one of my roommates, Ry--, this week, so he hasn't been talking to me. He's mad because I yelled at him. I don't know if I should feel bad about it, though. He likes to joke around all the fucking time and while I like to have a good time, there are moments when I just don't want him following me around and trying to be funny. And I guess a year and seven months was my limit of how much I could take living with him and not say anything about it, because on Wednesday I just snapped (but it probably didn't help that I was drunk). I yelled at him and told him to quit following me around and I didn't think he was funny and to just leave me the fuck alone every once in a while and . . . [drunken rambling].

When he tried to make a joke out of it by standing behind me, I punched him. Or rather, I would have had he not moved out of the way and had the room not been slowly spinning and tilting. I yelled at him some more and he finally got the point and just walked off. We haven't said more than two words to eachother since.

But I don't really feel bad. (That's the McBastard in me.) I mean, I guess I should have had the decency to tell him sober and in a more tactful way. But for the past several months I've been tactful, or, at the very least, not rude. I've asked him why he follows me around, and I've shut up whenever he pisses me off with a joke that he takes just a little too far. But Ry-- doesn't know when to stop and doesn't take hints very well, so maybe telling him in a very explicity way was the only way it would get through to him.

Anyway, I did it; it's over. I can't take it back now. But to tell the truth, I kind of miss his jokes sometimes.