“He stopped me on set and demanded I bring him coffee.” “He didn’t,” Farrah gasps. “He did.” I chew on a cookie, narrowing it down to just a ring that I easily pop in my mouth. “Yelled at me, actually, for not refilling the carafe, blamed me for having to get to set early, and sure, he said ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ but he didn’t mean it. You can’t say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ with malice dripping off the tip of your tongue.” “God, I hate when malice drips,” Farrah says sarcastically. “Dripping malice is hot garbage.” “Total hot garbage.”
