The F-man arrives tomorrow - still seems like an excruciatingly long time until he gets here, but some perspective is entering the situation as I realize how little time I have left to do the things I want to have done before he gets here. So far I have:
1. Cleaned the apartment
2. Made and frozen the perfect meat sauce
3. Made a tin of chocolate-covered halva
4. Started another tin of random and delicious sweets
5. Actually, just done a fuckload of cooking
6. Got a haircut
7. Started flavouring myself pineapple
I must still:
2. Clear the rubbish off my rooftop
3. Finish the random and delicious sweet-tin
4. Make reefer butter
5. Repair the flat on the Guest Bicycle
Errrrrm . . . I think that's all. What's my point, you ask? My point is Milan Kundera is a bastard. When I was twelve I read The Book of Laughter and Forgetting and I can't think of a better argument for keeping grown-up books away from moron kids. The problem is you believe things when you're that age. And he stated ever so categorically in that book, I'm pretty sure, that any breakage of patterns from the honeymoon phase of the relationship represents an emotional betrayal so one should be ever so careful not to overstretch oneself during the honeymoon phase.
This has not been borne out in my experience, wherein my men and I have all operated on the basis of "I'm in an indulgent mood so enjoy it while you can" that had very little to do with the honeymoon status of whatever anyways . . . besides, if Figaro's arrival marks the beginning of another honeymoon it'll be our fifth or something. So after fifteen years of always having Milan Kundera squatting on my brain like a big frowny misogynist frog, telling me not to flavour myself pineapple for special occasions or else my relationships will end as soon as I stop, I'm going to say as categorically as he,
Fuck off, Milan Kundera. Fuck off like Ayn Rand. Philosophical novels are the fucking musical parodies of the literary world and that's what you write. The problem is you write them so much prettier than most other authors of philosophical novels, which just makes the manipulation of characters who should be living and breathing their own lives through the pages of your books and who you instead turn into laboured mouthpeices of your own gloomy gloomsalotism all the more perverse.