Marvellous.

Dearest blog readers, ye of few and prominent: Brie Larson is boring.

Sure, she’s, literally, a 10.7568 on a scale of 0-10 human, but I mean... Brie... ya boring. i don’t even care if I would arm wrestle a wookie to be in your arms enwraptured within a fit of passion for any length of whatever moments: you’re boring. Boo.

So whatever, Grimes was at your premier (by the way, Akh Faernaa if you’re reading I’ve been chasing my left leg to a broadstroked coincidence marked by a shiny black space-elf star shell... to the ends of Caladaan and, unlike Azalea, Twitchitt and I would never bitch out on a foursome with Dr. Manhattan and the girl who inspired me to use garageband back in ‘08.)

But, it’s past time now. X, right?

I’m in the back of a movie theatre in North Shore Hawai’i with some genius friends Twitchitt and I met when someone mentioned, aloud, “True Master.” 

I was like, who me? That was Friday. Maybe. 

Elon: subject of our recent collective AC obsession... I have this pitch for you. See, I’m a designer and my little (younger) brother is disabled. We’re at a robot-legs type point in history. Maybe you can hop on the Show train and vice versa. You got all the cykik movies—get at me. Send a car.

On the subject of Sheraton hotels: eat a dick.

What part of anonymity don’t people understand? Hey poolboy, my jacket cost a month of your salary so settle down before I take you down homie. Peg ass motherfucking plastic condocreep boxclimber. Fuck off.

Back to Brie because she’s a giant image in front my my head. I’m a creep for you like Radiohead, baby. Holla back with an NDA and prospect my DNA. Props on Captain Marvel. Stan Left me to the keys to the mansion, though. Sorry ‘boutchya beautiful booty chika cheetah cheeks, booboo.