Look, I admit, I'm at least partly responsible for the situation. It's my fault I'M here, and not his, er, mine.

The pronouns can get really confusing, so maybe I should just back up. It's not easy being a clone, or, shall I say a time-displaced duplicate of him. I mean, of myself (see?). The accident happened a while ago, really long enough for him, the other me, to get used to it. We both decided that we'd stay in the same house and have the same life; he owed me that much, for saving his (my) life.

I DON'T think it's right that he doesn't respect my privacy, though. I mean, come on. If I bring a woman home, shouldn't common courtesy dictate that you spend the night on the couch? It's only ONE night a week. On average, anyway. Or maybe he'd let us spring for a bigger apartment. But no. We've got to share the bed. And he just stays there.

I swear, sometimes I just hate my guts.