Dear future hubster,
can you tell me why do I try finding consolation in keeping left-behind property of people long gone? And especially, why do I find it important to note whom they used to belong to? Eli's cosmetics, Bea's delhaize bags, Milla's dumbbells, Orsika's French dictionary, Kati&Fruzsi's paper cranes?
I keep their habits, too. It always has to be mentioned that the no-flour chocolate cake is à la Cindy, and so is putting cinnamon in the tomato salad; whereas double chocolate muffin always follows the Evike method; piling up the dishes in the living room is pulling an Arthur and saving sushi for dessert is definitely York.
I think it's safe to declare, dear future hubster, that I'm a hoarder of not only objects but also mannerisms. Be prepared, I will take and wash your cutlery before you would know like my gramma does, and leave just a sip of coffee in the mug like my sister. 

Dear future hubster,
if you happen to be a musician, please, please, do start your shows on time. It's irritating not to know how much longer we have to wait, and what for; in fact, you're making your own task of winning me more difficult with every minute passing. You're ready, we're ready, let's just get going.

Dear future hubster,
you probably have no idea, so I'm telling you now: take that lead, it makes you highly attractive. A man in charge is hottttttt.

Dear future hubster,
clichés are true. And coffee in Italy is oh so good.