Half an orange life

Owing to the regrettable fact that, as of now, my hopeless excuse for an existence revolves chiefly around Neanderthal Man, my mother, a boring job and a flat devoid of furniture with an irritating doorbell, a pothead and an obsessive compulsive maniac for flatmates (well best friends anyway), oh and a Maruti 800 that doesn't know its arse from its nose, my blogging habits may reflect the same.
Take for example Neanderthal Man (NM): When i first saw the guy sitting across the room all alone at a mutual friend's party, i hadn't the faintest inkling that i would end up falling haplessly in love with him only to find myself three years down the line practically engaged and practically gagging at the thought of waking up to his cheerful smile for the rest of my waking life *ugh*- man spare me the hope and pass me the booze- we're all going to die like rats when the global warming shit hits the fan anyway. He is everything I'm not- enthusiastic, cheerful and stupid. It's taken me three long years to figure that one out but hey, i love the morbidly cheerful bastard inspite of having serious homicidal feelings for him that are getting more frequent as the wretched weather gets hotter. Here's what he does on an intolerably hot summer day: he wakes up early, runs 3 kilometres, buys breakfast and insists on waiting patiently outside my front door until i'm awake enough to let him in (the pothead is stoned-asleep and the OC maniac refuses to answer morning rings); then he sits in his shorts on the terrace and smiles at all the aunties as they come upstairs to hang out their washing- "tanning" he calls it- i call it "a recipe for skin cancer". Then he gets sun burnt, comes downstairs, i panic and put aloe on the burns, scold him for his stupidity and then stalk off to watch the football highlights on the telly as flatmates curse loudly from respective rooms.
He sulks because i don't pay any attention to him after the aloe medication and the scolding. too bad i say- he's a grown man, he should know better than to flash his upper torso at aunties upstairs using that flimsy excuse of sunbathing. If he were to die from cancer i would put his remains in a bottle and remain single and celibate forever. Now that would be a terrible thing to happen. So, i keep reminding him, that while he may be very tempted to try things like bungee jumping and heavy metal concerts, i would much rather curse him alive than dead. As much as i would be disgusted at the thought of admitting it, i do love the stupid bastard.
Neanderthal man is a constant source of entertainment and Darshini breakfast (Note to self: must teach NM to cook. I can't take this oily vada crap any longer) I'm the simplest girlfriend he could ever have; i don't ask for presents or expect him to remember important dates (Hell i can't remember them myself)- the most i will ask for is a tenner pack of Kings from the neighbouring paanwalla. I even wear his discarded clothes, can tell the difference between a three-plate and four-plate clutch and coherently explain the meaning of the phrase "pedal to the metal."
Neanderthal Man still expects me to open the door at seven in the morning on weekends, inspite of past experience involving curses on his unborn children, threats to never see him again if he didn't go home and calling his Mom to tell her where he had disappeared to that early in the morning.
But the man will still insist on ringing the doorbell at seven in the morning on a saturday- now what in the name of Beelzebub, do i do about that!