I’ve just had my first week of living the narky nines and it does not bode well for the future. I thought the sarky sevens and insolent eights were bad but she’s upped it a level.
The full title is the narky narcissistic nightmare nines. If it isn’t passive-aggressive screaming sessions in her room, intended for a wide audience but just incomprehensible enough you have to engage (and further enrage) the beast to have a clue as to cause, it’s teenage-style pouting selfies wearing a ton of make up. The only spoken languages are sass and defensive sulking, and any form of gratitude is a thing of the past.
I’m exhausted, physically and mentally.
I lay upstairs today, after 24 hours of wakeover with her best mate (like a sleepover without the sleep) and realised I had nothing. No energy, no patience. No fucks to give. No idea what to cook for dinner. In the end I sent husband and hell brat off to McDonalds (with hell brat sulking all the way) so I could walk the dog in artic peace.
I know it gets worse. Don’t tell me, I haven’t bought my necessary vineyard yet. I’m going to need it!
In the meantime, hurrah for my therapigs…