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I’ve never seen the point of fancy dress parties. You have two choices: either you make a massive effort and wind up looking like a dick, or you make no effort and wind up looking like a dick. And my problem, as always, was not knowing what kind of dick I wanted to be.
LUC IM GOING OT KEEP ASKING YOU HOW THINGS ARE WITH OLIVER UNTIL YOU ANSWR OR MY THUMBS FALL OFF I took pity on her. Or maybe on everyone else. It’s wonderful. We’re getting married. Why do you think I need to clean my flat? YOUR BEING SARCASTIC THAT MEANS YOU SECRETLY LIKE HIM!!! SEE YOU ON SAT CANT WAIT!!!
“Where I am going with this, mon caneton, is that I don’t give a shit. It is my curry, and I will make it the way I fucking well want to. And that is the way Oliver should live his life. Because the people who matter will love you anyway.”
My working theory was that getting a dessert from a vegan restaurant was like having sex with someone less attractive than you—they knew it was a tough sell, so they tried harder.
“What, are you literally allergic to enjoying yourself?” “In a manner of speaking. The, um, V-cut you so admire doesn’t maintain itself.”
“Fine. But as punishment for not having the guts to order your own, I’m going to feed it to you in a sexy way.” Aaaand the blush was back. “Do you have to?” “Well. No.” I smiled at him across the table. “But I’m going to anyway.” “I think you’ll find it’s not a sexy food.” “I’ve seen you eat a lemon posset. I’m going to find this sexy whether you like it or not.” “Fine.” He gave me a cold stare. “Give it to me, baby. Give it to me hard.” “You see, you’re trying to put me off. But it’s not working.”
