By the time I was done, my fingers were bleeding. Because that’s how many hairs you have on your head. So many that it makes your fingers bleed to pull them all out.
Only a few of us take matters into our own hands in this way. Actually tearing your own hair out of your head. …The shame of trying to look better, and then the shame of making yourself look worse via your own actions, of giving yourself bald spots, of making yourself go bald. Shame upon shame upon shame. So much shame. Some people die from it.
There was a beat. Then, in the best parenting save I’ve encountered anywhere ever, my dad replied, “Yeah, sweetie. I don’t know either.” And that’s how I came to believe “oral sex” meant “talking” for the next six or seven years.
Your real-life sexual orientation is moot. You deserve the same respect — and career opportunities — provided to other actors. Here’s my evidence: You’re consistently confusing the crap out of my lady hormones.
In South Beach we turned our noses up at the restaurants by the water, where the waitresses bark at you that it’s happy hour and there is a special. Instead we ate tapas at a little Spanish place that felt hidden. By this point we were both so sunburned and tired, we needed to go home.
Even after we became used to being constantly sneered at and belittled and insulted and demeaned, we were shocked every time he really crossed the line. I used to fantasize that he would die in a car accident, and daydream about how happy we would be if we heard that he wasn’t coming back through that front door.
While we taxied to the runway, you told me about how you used to have a cat named Tom that would attack your wife in her sleep. You searched through the pockets of your khaki travel vest to try and locate one of your business cards. Your business? Bridge-building. Hence, Bridge Man.
Signed to Red NY Management, Bradley Soileau starred in the new viral Lana Del Rey music video, “Born to Die,” which currently has over 3 million views on YouTube.
I turn to be greeted by a very familiar-looking TSA officer. Why, it’s my old high school rival, Jim! (He’s the dirty dog who stole my best gal and took her to the Homecoming Dance senior year.) “Hey Jim! How are you? You’re looking good, my man!”
She insists on making the bed even though I’m going to collapse onto it as soon as she’s finished. “Making the bed is an act of love,” she says, like she pulled that phrase out of some Grandma textbook that only Grandmas read. I know nothing about making the bed, nothing about love.