Shit. Shoot me now. Two weeks ago, in a snit, I turned down an interview with
Cillian Murphy. I'd wanted to talk to Neil Jordan, see, but my editor wanted Cillian Murphy. No, I pouted, I wanna talk to the diiirreeectoorrr!!11!!
Then I saw Breakfast on PlutoFuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck. Shoot me now
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Tsk. And I say again: Tsk.
* I'm thinking, in my head, (as opposed to thinking in my armpit) that interview in this case is a euphamism for hot and steamy lemur sex.
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Rub more salt in the wound, baby. I deserve it.
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You...
Cillian...
AND YOU DIDN'T!?!?!?!??
Becausehedidthisscenewithgrayoldmaninbatmanbeginsandheneedstoplayhislittlebrotheryesplease. Also, pretty.
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I know.
I know.
Believe me, I know.
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You were sick, right? You were feverish. That's it.
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*throws noose over wood beam*
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Bummer about your stuff; your landlord throwing stuff out like that is the suck.
Um ... You didn't interview Cillian Murphy. I think I'd plead temporary insanity if I were you.
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*Applauds*
(BTW, I adore your layout. I could sit and stare at Lee's collarbone all day).
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