my door is my calendar and I've opened it

So I am at your house, really your apartment and you are there. I’m a 7 in a scale from 1 to 10 that delineates my love for exposed brick. I can’t remember if you have it. But I am in the apartment and you are there. I can’t remember if I’ve been here before. I look and I see your grand piano. Your grand piano is very close to your kitchen. You go to the TV. The TV is hanging upside down in the closet. We want to watch this closet TV and we can’t figure out its physics, it’s gravitational basics. We abandon this project and I see in your living room you have a Christmas tree set up and a bowl filled with Christmas ornaments. I see two nutcrackers with their arms pointing to one another. I think it’s September. I think you’re a bit crazy to be ready for December so early. Then I think it’s sweet you love something so much to as to be ready for it three months too soon. Then I see your coffee table has an Easter basket on it. And there are colored eggs in it. And on the yellow armchair that you told me you found on the street there is your Halloween costume folded and ready. By your coat rack, I see a picnic basket prepared for Labor Day. You have an area dedicated to each holiday. In every moment you’re ready for our calendar celebrations, marked by the furniture as X’s on a map that is your apartment. I think it’s sweet. I leave your back door to go to my place and I sit inside waiting for the 29^th to pass. I was told I shouldn’t have left the house today.  But I won’t be a slave to my calendar.