I’m going to tell you something that might be difficult for you to hear. So I want you to keep in mind that I love you, very, very much.
But 4:17 AM is not the time to wake me up and start thinking about the most random shit on the planet, like whether or not Charlie Hunnam is circumsized, and how to find out if Omar, the kitten, has some kind of feline autism or something because he’s just not like the other cats.
I would love to ponder the idea of a bigger planet than we can imagine watching us humans in amusement, like we’re some kind of human puppy mill. We can even figure out a story outline about the scientist who discovers how to manufacture and inject emotions, but then he starts abusing that power. They always do.
Let’s consider what would happen if you put random shit in the Vitamix, like a coconut or jewelry or Omar, if he doesn’t stop destroying every fucking thing in the house. (Cool it, activists. I’m not serious.)
Sure, we can sit and think about how much fun it would be to get drunk with Paget Brewster or sit on Michael Fassbender’s face, but let’s do it at a normal time and not at the end of a middle-of-the-night REM cycle.
I love you. I really, really do. But sometimes, you just need to shut. The fuck. Up.