I get it. You’re being hurtled uncontrollably through space just like your subconscious is in turmoil over your daughter becoming another somber schoolyard tag statistic. It’s gravity that’s weighing you down woman. Holy fuck that would be a horrible movie to endure if you were blind. The Oscars are this weekend. The biggest worldwide circle jerk outside of a Peter Thiel cowboy chaps only party in SoHo. This is the weekend where people you couldn’t fucking stand in high school get the attention they’ve so desperately craved since childbirth. I can’t survive the Oscars. Technically, they’re not as bad a shit show as some of these other awards shows because they keep out the D-list riffraff, at least until the Kardashians break the gutter seal at the Al Jazerra post-Oscar party. There’s no other industry where people feel a need to be beloved so greatly for their special craft, such as it is. You won’t see plumbers taking dramatic pauses in between thanking their dead mom for believing they could swap out a sink trap. And we need plumbers. Soldiers don’t have an elaborate awards show. Army Ranger Leroy Petry got shot through both legs in Afghanistan, and when a subsequent grenade was tossed toward his team, he lurched out, grabbed it, and tossed it away as it exploded, blowing off his hand in the process. He got the Medal of Honor for being one crazy brave son of a bitch. No list of agents to thank. He didn’t say a word. Actors, emote, counter-emote, take your plump paychecks and your recreational opiates and shut the fuck up. Okay, fine, that was gratuitous.
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