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“I’m not a pervert. I’m a hedonist. There’s a difference.” No expansion was offered to that argument, and no one requested it.
“So far? Making censors shake their heads and early reviewers tag the plot as #problematic,” Adrian summarized.
is anybody else over self aware fourth wall breaking bullshit
Adrian registered the dilated pupils, the colorless fists, the unsteady pulse. He made a mental note: Anger, no tears. Zooey immediately tagged him: Latino Marc Anthony. Adrian appended to that: Marc Anthony is Latino, you stupid bitch.
“Two bros / Working undercover in the back room of a paint shop / Five feet apart because they’re-not-gay!”
FUCK
She said, not allowing her voice to crack, “Do you realize that, since you’re so incapable of loving Zooey, she must be the one who loves you?”
“Well, it was a smart move,” Danny reasoned, after some consideration. “There’s a fair chance she becomes a target too; maybe she was safer with you. Where is she now?” “Hotel on Columbus Ave. I guess. Probably. I gave her a check; I don’t think they’d let her cash it in anywhere else.” “Oh, cool! Kudos, Mrs. Doubtfire, thank God you are looking after her!”
With a scream that even a professional anime voice actor would condemn as overacted,
“Yes. Remember the civilian Mikey shot in the diner in neutral land? Congrats, you angered a lesbian in love. It’s okay—it’s a common mistake.”
The second we locked eyes, we knew the rest of the universe was context.
The FBI’s listening right now from a paint store on 10th Street. Good agents, Marlow and Dawes. They must be on their way right now, if they’re not too busy making passionate love on the desk. (Shouting at the portrait on the floor.) And if you are, I’m so happy for you guys, but come here anyway!”
