Day in the Life.
I will kill him. I swear to God in Heaven, I will kill him.
Four thirty in the morning is not a reasonable time to be conscious. You should be in bed at four, or possibly on your way if you have been at a really wicked party, but you should not be awake, let alone up and dressed and das Geschrei am Gott verdammte Fernsehen, das ich dem Gott schwöre, wenn er nicht Maul hält, töte ich ihn!
He's lucky he's cute.
I really don't know how he expects to get anything done, the way he behaves. He gets up at the crack of noon when half the day's already gone, and then spends the next six hours complaining about how early it is. By the time he's really awake, it's almost time to go to bed. Which I suppose is kind of the point for him, really. In Klavier's perfect world, he spends half the time sleeping and the other half in bed.
That doesn't sound too bad, actually.
I just wish he'd wash the bloody dishes once in a while.
He eats like a hamster.
It did not bother me at first. I actually thought it was adorable, and much less disgusting than eating with one's mouth open (Daryan, I hate you forever. I still cannot eat French fries.) He opens his mouth extremely wide and then closes it around his fork or spoon or what have you, and then pulls the spoon out without opening his lips. He even makes the 'om' sound. It was funny when I thought he was doing it on purpose, and more so when I realized he was not, but seven billion times later…
Can he not just eat his fucking cereal?!
I've tried explaining it to him a thousand times, but he just doesn't get it. You don't eat hotdogs and chips for breakfast. You don't have porridge for dinner. There are breakfast foods and there are lunch foods and there are dinner foods, and they can't be mixed around or everything gets messed up. And you can't just eat whenever you want. Eleven o'clock at night is not an appropriate time to make pancakes, no matter how delicious they are.
Not that I'm not grateful. Of course I am.
In fact, I'm glad he's finally eating anything at all.
I am a fucking rock star. Literally.
He knew this when he moved in with me. I even warned him. I said 'Herr Forehead, you start sleeping in my flat, and the paparazzi will never give either of us a moment's peace.' But he said he could handle it. He said that he was used to dealing with obnoxious jerks. He said he would be willing to put up with it if only to make my life easier.
Throwing my toaster out the window on one of their heads is not making my life easier! Now I need to buy a new toaster.
I would be fine with everything if he didn't insist on flirting with absolutely everything that moves. There are times when I start to wonder if he even really knows he's doing it. And then I see him posing shirtless in front of the kitchen window licking the peanut butter off a spoon (who the hell uses a spoon to put peanut butter on toast in the first place?!?) so some red-headed floozy below can take a picture of him and I realize he knows exactly what he's doing and loves every minute of it.
He's such an idiot.
Doesn't he realize how that makes me feel?
He has this adorable little thing he does when he is sleeping.
At first he just goes very still, and the first time I almost had to check to see that he was alright. After a moment, he blushes and moves closer and puts his head on my shoulder. Sometimes he puts his arm over my chest, but usually he wraps himself around my arm like I am a teddy bear. Then, after a long while, after he is asleep again, he smiles.
If he really wants to cuddle so badly, he need only ask. I would not mind.
When he thinks I'm asleep, he watches me. I know it sounds creepy, but… I actually kind of like it. I really like it. It's what lets me know that, no matter what happened during the day, he still belongs to me. He's still my glimmerous fop, no matter whose tabloid he's on the cover of. Then, all the jealousy, all the stupid little nit-picky things that bother me about him go away, and I realize why I love him in the first place.
I suppose, in our own strange ways…
We're both idiots.