They're saying Pluto's not a planet anymore. I heard about this in the grocery store. My stock of hohos was swiftly dwindling and my supply of hot pockets needed replenishing, which explains why I was shopping at all; unless Kate or someone comes over with bags of processed food and cheap wine, my cupboards and refrigerator stay fairly bare save
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A little blonde pixie I dated in high school. I believed the wrong people when they told me she'd been cheating on me. Crushed her under my heel like I was Rommel, and found out years later at our reunion that it just wasn't true at all.
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I don't know. All I know is, there are times when I reflect back, even though my life is pretty damned cool, and when I'm alone, I get a little wandering imagination, and I try to picture how things would've gone, and sometimes, when I'm on my seventeenth interview of the day, and they're asking the same tired shit, I wonder if it might not have been so bad to have gone the other direction. But then, I wouldn't have this motherfucking Emmy right here, so. You know.
Little balances.
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People are perfectly happy living the life of monogamy and domesticity. Conceivably, you'll never have a lasting relationship in the public eye, because the press goes around and screws with people and everything inevitably gets fucked up. If you weren't, you know, you, at least you'd have a small fraction of a chance. I guess it all relies on what you consider brings happiness, you know? Are you going to sleep with your Emmy? You should. Buy it a little negligee and everything.
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Shh, don't you talk about my little golden girl like she's some kind of whore, Leisha.
She didn't say a word honey. No, not a word. What's that, you want to go to In-And-Out Burger?
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You're pretty sick, Piven. At least take her for hummus or something.
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