She looks like she exists solely on Diet Coke. I am fascinated by her. She’s got the form and function of an animated control issue.

WHY DIDN’T THEY GET SECURITY TO ESCORT HER OUT.

I feel so fucking bad for him. Like Tiffany times a thousand. Can you even imagine being related to such a toxic spore and trying to develop your own whole self? Even without learning challenges and so on?! I want to punch something.

The bodies of all these kinds of people have adapted to dehydration, because the body is incredible and has only one goal: survive. Starving people also lose their appetite—doesn’t mean they aren’t starving.

“...I just don’t know how it’s possible to fight someone with an assault rifle.”

I mean, everyone in the situation is going to be terrified beyond reason, and that’s why the protocol is there—to think for you.

There seems to be something up with him, but it could be simply that he’s the son of a distant sociopath who’s kept cloistered and doesn’t have opportunities to get socialized. That’s always gonna leave a mark. He could also be autistic, as his dad’s contribution was past the expiration date and he doesn’t seem to…

Same as it ever was.

The whole structure of needing an intermediary to be properly in touch with your god seems wrong and dangerous to me. Like it’s meant to make you reliant on validation rather than to make you strong in your faith. I’m kind of neutral on faith itself, but if I wanted it, I’d want it raw and unvarnished. I’d want to…

I’m so glad it helped. And your compassion is certainly not a character flaw! We are all just figuring this shit out. I totally do the “fix it” thing, although I’m a woman. Like, you’re giving me a problem; why wouldn’t I solve it? I start seeing visions of wrenches dance in my head.

People do their art every day without striving for or dealing with fame. Nothing is being denied them. She worked very hard to achieve her fame, changing her musical style and look and approach repeatedly and trying for exposure in any form, back to when she went on Boiling Points, for godsake. She wanted this—hard. …

I zeroed right in on a typo (human-sized infectious microbte), which I assume was intentionally left there to make us feel at home.

The only thing I might do differently is remove your vocal acceptance from the equation—it seems counterintuitive, but I found that my “supportive” words for friends having a crisis of confidence were not really helping. For instance, I have a friend who has always been heavy and is very self-conscious about it. …

She could just be naturally skeletal and highly focused, but she’s got the downy skin, wispy hair, and control issues of an anorexic. There, I said it. I think she’s got an issue.

I’ll give you Ariana, yes. But her five minutes with it are still expired and she would look so much better with a ripe berry lip and a divorce from the I Dream of Jeannie hair.

One of the basic disconnects is the religious idea that life itself is the most precious thing, unequivocally, even if that life is composed of suffering, unwantedness, lack of deserved resources, and any chance at wholeness or success. “Life” is the purpose, but the reason isn’t there. It never is.

I tire of Gaga’s “I’m an artist” middle-distance stare. For all her supposed playfulness, she doesn’t actually seem to have a true sense of humor about herself. Every time I see her strike the “I’m serious and mysterious” pose, I just sense desperation.

It is deeply unflattering on most people. It’s always severe, and shrinks your mouth while calling attention to it. Taraji P. Henson is the only person who partially pulls it off, but it gets tired on anyone after about five minutes.

A flask? Really?

That theory is correct, except that he also uses Barron as an excuse for not fucking her. They are held together by greed sinews and ego paste.