The evil, psychotic house guest has left.
He was perfect at (constantly) making sure you didn't mind this or that, so long as you were there in the same room, to ask. As to getting up in the middle of the night to help himself - no problem. Same again if only the kids were about - they didn't count.
He left in a huff, because I took him mumbling in his offhand, conceited fashion, from the comfort of my computer station where he was ensconced, about me being educationally subnormal; f*cking certifiable etc etc, (just as he has for a week and a half) until I lost it and crashed the computer by pulling the electricity fuse.
All I wanted was an apology. I wanted him to snap out of it, hear himself, and readjust his behaviour. What I got instead was loads and loads more smarmy, laughing abuse and he even took care to steal the expensive bottle of wine our son had bought just this weekend for my husband's birthday present, as he left. He did it deliberately - having spent two weeks scoffing exotic foods in front of us all, several times a day (boy does he eat) in preference to our budget family diet, he knew damn well we hadn't seen the inside of a £7 bottle of wine for a year or so and were saving this for a special occasion. He took it just to be smug, the r-hole.
He is kind of family and I feel kind of responsible for him, but he is definitively unwell. This makes it worse because his turns of phrase are so abusive that he has no friends left - most of them end up threatening to sue him, and I feel like tail end charlie - desperately worried he will end up on the streets, and guilty as hell towards his poor mother.
I am trying to work out who I loathe the most just now - me or him. I wanted to hang on in there, I just haven't got what it takes. Its bizarre, huh, to cry most of the time someone that 'unusual' is in my house, only to cry more out of similar frustration when they have stormed out.
Half of me wishes I had just taken his offensive behaviour, which would have involved a lot less respect or hope for him and a clearer image of him as a mental patient who can't help it. The other half of me wishes I had kicked his travel bag with all my strength, to smash that bottle into his clothes and books. Thank God the kids weren't here.