To my housemate, whom I would like to keep as a friend.
10:00 p.m.

Dear D,

You're so fucking smug you drive me nuts. I mean, you're clever and funny and I do like you, don't get me wrong, but for the love of beer and skittles, would it be so hard to admit that you're wrong every now and then? Would it be so hard, when the rest of us are bemoaning our situations, to keep your frigging mouth shut instead of saying "Well, I never have that problem"?

You have no sympathy. You have no ability to see the points of view of people who are substantially different from you, and you don't see this as a problem. In fact, you're proud of it.

Your life is apallingly narrow in this one respect: you do not try to understand people whose lives don't directly affect yours.

And, look, I'm pagan too, okay? I get that Christianity has major problems, but millions of people believe in it. Could you quit acting like it's nonsense just because you don't believe in it? You really should know better than that, and the fact that you don't seem to care makes me doubt you.

Then there's the pornography. Free clue: if you're going to look up porn websites on your laptop, clear your browser's history every now and then so that your housemate doesn't accidentally stumble upon "peachfuzzteens.com" when she's looking for Penny Arcade. I won't even ask whether your wife knows about it; it's not really any of my business, and who knows, maybe she wouldn't (doesn't?) actually mind.

I mind. Maybe that's hypocritical, but I'm not trying to justify this intellectually; it's just how I feel.

I can't live with you any more. Part of this is because of the thousand tiny compromises you always have to make when you share living space and that I've just had enough of, after nigh on a year; but part of it is because I liked you a lot more when I knew you less well.

I am hoping to forget some of the things I have learned in living with you, so that I can look you in the eye again.

I still want to be your friend.

K.

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