A DISPUTE ABOUT THE CALENDAR

The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli:  The calendar means nothing to the person.
Me:  I don't understand what you're talking about.
The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli:  There's a rigidly specific chronology of events that needs to take place.  No flexibility will be tolerated.  If the rigid chronology of events is disrupted to even the vaguest level, then everything falls to pieces.  When that happens, it's all over and it's all ruined.
Me:  What's the rigidly specific chronology of events that needs to take place.  That way, I can fix everything to make it right again.
The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli:  It's finished.  It's done.  I'm going to spend the rest of the day whining about what a lost cause it is.  Oh woe is me.  Oh who indeed.
Me:  No seriously, tell me what the rigid chronology of events that needs to take place and I'll fix it for you.  You can trust me.  I know what I'm doing.
The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli:  It's over.  It's ruined.  It's a disaster.  There is no hope.  There is no optimism.  It's gone.  Finished.  I'm ruined.  What will I do now?  I'm a wrecked piece of hopeless filth.  It's done.  It's all done.  I feel like crying.
The Man Who Smells Like Burnt Broccoli burst into tears and he walked off and vanished from sight.  I shrugged my shoulders and with a frown, I walked the opposite direction.
And as I'm lost in thought in the Summer, here are some photos of Lily Donaldson.