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Michael Cunningham, marry me. Seriously.

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I don’t know what I’m looking for. I wish there was a dude here dressed as a Pizza Slice. I would probably make out with him on principle. Carla and Kelly are making out on the couch and there are at least four people taking and tweeting pictures of it.

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This asseveration lead me to the undeserved conceit of imagining life as Ellis (“…after all, who am I compared to him?” says the Woody Allen sequitir in my head), and thus, to imagining what I would do if I were B.E.E. for a day.

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Movies are a medium of passion. If there is no passion, there is no movie. This is what Hollywood thinks about a “true-to-the-zeitgeist intellectual tome documenting the depths of teenage confusion”: if there is no drama, we cannot sell it.