The Final Fucking Straw

I spent all of Thursday getting the new WILT ready to go - I had about 1/2 of an hour's of work left on it when Drinky Joe asked if he could quickly use the computer to check the bus schedules before he went out.
After he went back downstairs I went to finish and found a black screen - the whole fucking system had locked.
It took me three fucking hours to figure out what was causing it and isolate the problem. It was some trojan malware program from a porn site downloaded under his user account back in April (when I was back in IL) that just decided to "bloom" and blow everything to hell.
Luckily, all of the internet/word files I had been working on were recovered, but all of the graphic work was shot.

I was still trying to unravel the whole fucking mess when Drinky stumbled home from the bar just after 2AM. He hit the john, wolfed down a couple of cheese blocks from 7-11, and promptly crashed out on the fucking couch and began snoring & coughing up a storm (like this).

I chewed a Valium, took a couple of pictures for his Flickr page, went back to trying to figure out how to fix the computer, and turned up the music in a futile attempt to drown out the din. That didn't work. After about a half-hour, I woke him up, explained his precarious situation, and told him to go the fuck to bed before I was tempted to shoot him.

Drinky Tonight

He got up, hit the bathroom again, ate another couple snack-packs of 7-11 cheese, and proceeded to crash right back out on the upstairs couch. Fuck.
I decided to take a leak before dealing with Drinky round II. I sidled up to the terlet, took a step onto the rug, and SQUISH. There was urine everywhere - soaked into the rug, down the wall, pooled all over the tile, down the inaccessible cracks where the linoleum meets the wall, all over the seats... EVERYWHERE.
This wasn't the first time that had happened.

I fucking lost it. I ran over to the couch, grabbed him by the shoulders and started to scream and shake him like a can of hardware-store paint. I'm not sure what I said - All I can recall is that he was terrified, I was so angry that I was drooling and spitting with every single syllable, and that a pool of foamy saliva was collecting in Joe's left eye-socket.
I threw him off of the sofa, declined his offer to clean up his mess (ie: use 3 rolls of paper towels to drunkenly spread his urine all over the greater upstairs region) and marched him downstairs with explicit instructions not to show his face upstairs until tomorrow (for his own well-being).

What scares me is that I really wanted to hurt him - make him break and bleed. Thank Christ for that Valium.
I've had my own regrettable messy nights, but with Drinky it's almost EVERY FUCKING NIGHT. I just can't fucking take it. Something has to fucking change.

It won't.
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Addendum: Due to this evening's Drinky Joe fiasco the Summer 2007 WILT offering won't be done until later this weekend, or early next week. Everything's still fucked, I'm covered in Joe urine, ready to down my first drink of the evening, and call it a night.
Try and stop me.