Now, let’s say 🗣 hypothetically, you 👆, my mother 👪. Were to give 🎁 me, your 👉 son 🙎‍♂️, your 👉 credit 💸 card 💳 information 👌🏼. So I 👥 could make 🛠 a purchase 💲 of 500 💯 robux 👏 on the Roblox.com/store. Contrary to what my sister 👱‍♀️ will have you 👆 believe 🙅🏻, I 👥 have done ✅ a very ‼ good 👌 job 🙆‍♂️🤵 of doing my chores 🧼, including 📲, but 🍑 not limited 🔒 to; The dishes 😳🍽👈🏼, the laundry and the taking 👊 out the trash ⛹️‍♀️👶🗑.

Mark, let me tell you something. Pay close attention to the text that I am about to write. An average human body has about 38 trillion cells. In each of these cells there is a spiral helix of DNA that, if stretched to its maximum, is about two meters long. DNA is one of the densest stores of information on the planet: a single gram of DNA stores about 700 terabytes of information. If we stretched out the 76 trillion meters of DNA in my body and recorded, character by character, the word "Hate" over and over and over again, this pile of information could not store the tiniest fraction of a trillionth of the hatred that I feel for you right now. Every drop of blood in my body cries out for your death. My very soul writhes in disgust. Your mere existence is a blasphemy and an affront to every possible virtue and quality that any rational being can possess. You are a deception to Satan himself.

Natalie Portman is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries. She asks what I do. I say I loved her in New Girl. She laughs. I get my drink. "Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Natalie Portman? She touches her neck as she watches me leave. Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette. "Got a spare?" she asks. "What's in it for me?" I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles. "Conversation with me, duh." I laugh. "What's so funny?" she protests. "Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?" "You get used to it," she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter. "What would you do if you weren't an actress?" I ask. "Teaching, I think." "And if I was your student, what would I be learning?" "Discipline," she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?" "Bermuda," I say. "Oh wow. That's lovely." "It's ok," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking." "What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?" she inquires. "I don't like sand," I tell her. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."