my clothes are dirty but my hands are clean

The following is not to say that the Friday thing was not a thing.  That was a thing.  But the following is to give backstory and perspective to what resulted of the Friday thing.

it's not safe in there for me all by myself.

Why does the despair transmogrify into assholery?  I have thought about this a lot and here is the really brilliant theory I've developed: It's like when you're drowning and your lungs are like WTF NO and they suck in a huge wad of water that ultimately kills you because they only know how to do that one thing--suck in wads of whatever's out there, and in the best of all possible worlds it's AIR, duh, but sometimes you are fucking having a hard time and you get so crazed it feels like you don't even have time to differentiate, there's just an OMG WTF NO like life-affirming impulse buried somewhere in there and that thing totally hates it when you smother yourself in the pool or in suicidal self-loathing.  It just sucks in whatever it can to get you going again, get out of the water, get your head above this fucking backbreaking demoralization.

And Saturday he came over with an ice-cream cake and a little creature he made me.  He thinks it is a dog but it is an alligator.  Et voila.  He's the best thing that I've ever seen.