100 Dates -

 

I didn’t write about them, but just before Christmas 2020 I went on 2 dates with a man I’ll call Gavin. Gavin in his early 30’s, and sweet in a shy, derpy way. He was slightly goofy and looked a little bit like a cross between a Quentin Blake drawing and The Fast Show and Harry Potter actor Mark Williams. He was very softly spoken. When he was answering a question, he would roll his eyes upward and flutter his eyelashes rapidly.  I waited for him outside of the coffee shop we had arranged to meet on a chilly Saturday afternoon, and the minute he loped round the corner, I knew this wasn’t going to be a thing.

There was nothing wrong with Gavin. He just wasn’t what I am looking for at this stage of my life. Since being made redundant from a large shopping chain the previous Christmas, (just a few short months before the pandemic hit) he had been working a casual job with odd, ad-hoc hours. He wasn’t too worried about finding something more permanent – he lived with his parents, so he didn’t have rent /mortgage or bills to worry about. He said he’d never had a serious girlfriend, and it occurred to me that he might have never had any type of girlfriend at all.

It’s been 8 months since I deleted my profile and the apps. We are not on a break. This toxic relationship is over for good.  I agree that they work for some people, who manage to find each other in the haunted cesspit. I think most of this is down to luck rather than the apps doing what they are supposed to and find a good matches for their users. It would be a bad business model if the apps actually worked, because they rely on people returning to them again and again, getting desperate and paying for gold services to increase their chances of matches.

I know this because of my very brief time on Match. I had set up an account - hoping that like everyone said - a paid site would have more potential. More men that seriously wanted to meet someone. I quickly learned that men will pay if there’s a smidgeon of a chance it will get them laid.

Here they all were again – a line-up of the same men that had been using Tinder, Bumble OKC and Hinge, using the same profiles. After I’d filtered those out, I was left about 7 matches in my age and area preferences. I wasn’t interested in contacting any of these men, and I am sure they felt the same way about me. Still, I had paid for this, so I struck up a conversation with one man. After a while I had a niggling feeling he was unhappily married because he’d message me at odd times and say nothing remotely interesting at all. The chat soon fizzled out, and I wasn’t bothered.

After about 2 weeks, I asked Match for my money back – they took the first month and refunded me the remaining two. As soon as I had closed my account, I was bombarded with emails saying that messages were waiting for me, and thumbnail photos showed the kinds of men that 100% aren’t using the app, because if you look like Richard Madden or Margot Robbie you probably don’t need to. 

I thought this sudden influx of attractive men who wanted to meet me was a bit weird, so I did what anyone else would do in the same situation and Googled it. Sure enough, this is Match’s scammy way of getting you to sign back up so you can see those ‘messages’.

 To add to this shadiness, Match (who also own Tinder and OKCupid) keep dead profiles on the site so it looks as though they have a much bigger user base than they actually do. Another quick search and you’ll find the testimonies of users who left the site and later found out their profiles hadn’t been deleted and they were still coming up as active users.

It was knowing people that the apps worked for that kept me going back. I tried to change my attitude towards them, treating them as all the men seemed to do, like a virtual game of Snap!. When matches sent me crude or low-effort messages I’d reply with Peep Show or The Office quotes (still, deep down, a Pickmeisha desperate for attention). I’d tell my funniest stories. I’d persist with trying to keep conversations going. I got ruthless and unmatched anyone that didn’t reply within 48 hours. I’d immediately un-match if their opening message was a single emoji or a single word. Heart-eye face, ‘gorgeous’ ‘hi’.

I’d also immediately un-match if they sent me a copy n paste: Hi you profile looks interesting, would you like to meet one evening for dinner and drinks?

The apps weren’t working for me in the way they’d worked for my friends. No-one else seemed to have to give it this much time before they met someone. Why was I struggling so much? It becomes very easy to put all the lack of success on your own shoulders – not attractive enough, too old, profile is boring, I’m swiping right on and messaging the wrong type of men…

With not much else to do, I spent most of 2020 on the apps, the worst year in history to be using them. This run had lasted 7 uninterrupted months, the longest I had kept a live account going over the 3 years I had been using them.  As 2020 wound down, I was exhausted. I couldn’t take anymore feeling like I was ugly, or only useful as a free sex-chat service. My soul and spirit felt dirty and tired.  Really, it’s such an unnatural way to meet someone I am sure that it’s pure, dumb luck when it does work and that’s all there is to it.

As I am now over forty, I thought that people would stop asking me if I’d met someone and that I wouldn’t have to see the well-meaning, sympathetic head-tilt, sometimes accompanied by an arm-squeeze again and hear the words: ‘ahh, I am sure it will happen. Probably when you least expect it! You just need to stop looking!’

‘I have stopped looking,’

‘Well, don’t give up, join a club or something, you’re bound to meet someone doing something you enjoy!’

 This exchange is somehow more insulting when it’s with a stranger. The most recent occasion this happened was on a crowed Chiltern Line train on a Sunday afternoon.

I plonked myself in a window seat, opposite an elderly man. He was very, very tall, and looked like the BFG dressed for a summer afternoon tea party. He had been to his grandchild’s Christening, which explained the dapper outfit.

He missed his stop – the smaller doors at the end of the carriage didn’t open. Instead of finding another now empty seat closer to the door, he came and sat right next to me, in the space my sister had recently vacated. He saw a photo of my 9-month-old niece on my phone, and the conversation that followed went something like this: (I have edited it because he asked the same questions a few times)

Old man: Is that your granddaughter?

Me: No, it’s my niece

Old man: do you have any children of your own?

Me: Er, nope.

Old man: why not?

Me: I never really wanted any

Old man: do you have a husband?

Me: No

Old man (looks a bit shocked) a boyfriend?

Me: No, not one of those either.

Old man: Oh. So what does a single girl like you do with her time?

Me: What do you mean….like, socially…or…?

Old man: Work, what do you do for work?

Me: (explains my job which he didn’t understand and just looked baffled by. My dad joined in from across the way, yelling at him what I do which isn’t what I wanted on a packed train, because the description made me sound like one of those bailiff guys on Can’t Pay We’ll Take It Away)

Old man: do you want children?

Me: No.

Old man: (in a jolly tone) Oh well! It’s not too late for you to change your mind!

A minute ago, he had thought I was a grandmother, now he thinks I still have time to find a husband and have some kids! This man is obviously infirm in his old age!

Anyway, he reaches the next stop he can get off at to take the train back to the one he missed, shakes my hand and wishes me luck.

I feel like I often miss real-life opportunities to meet people, due to a combination of mild social anxiety, laziness and feeling ‘fat’, so when my friend Lulu suggested a last minute night out, I agreed (after already having a few drinks and getting my arm twisted a bit).

He was wearing shorts and flip-flops. I can’t remember much else about him, except that I thought he had a nice smiley face. He may or may not have been the same height as me or only a little bit taller. I liked that he didn’t have spaghetti strand legs. I got his number. Goddammit, I’m still such a Pickmeisha it makes me sick.

For 3 days I uhmed and aaahed about messaging him. Every time I went to, I’d feel this very strong urge not to. But I didn’t know if that was fear, or ridiculous over-thinking. Anyway, I did message him, and he replied pretty fast for the first few messages.

Since the first few messages, he takes much longer to reply. Days. He hasn’t replied at all to my message sent at the weekend. Flip-flop isn’t going to be date number 42.  

   

If I start dressing like this, maybe people will stop asking me if I'm still single

 

 

 

The Crappest Thing - a film review

 First up, apologies for any spelling errors etc. I wrote this in a fit of mild fury and then couldn't be bothered to edit it because I am hungry and Louis Theroux is on the telly in a bit...

‘I’ve basically been bored ever since 9/11’ – Jeremy, Peep Show

2001 - 2002. I was working in a pub, trying to write a novel that like the rest of the other attempts have been filed under, ‘Fucking Awful, You Suck, Give Up’. My boyfriend had dumped me almost a year before and I still wasn’t over it. I watched a lot of movies, mostly American teen high school comedies like She’s All That, Get Over it, 10 Things I Hate About You, and Cruel Intentions.

At some point, I must have watched The Sweetest Thing. I am pretty sure I did, but I didn’t keep the affection for it that I felt about all those other movies I have watched since. Though problematic (I recommend listening to Bechdel Cast’s episode on She’s All That) they were…OK right? They weren’t great, life-changing films, but they also weren’t terrible films.

The Sweetest Thing popped up on Netflix this weekend, and instead of watching something else, or poking my own eyes out with cotton buds, I waste an hour and a half of my life watching it, and a further 2 hours writing about how flippin’ awful it is. It stars Cameron Diaz (Christina) Selma Blair (Jane) and Christina Applegate (Courtney) as three friends, just a livin’ and a lovin’ their best lives in San Francisco.

What’s it about? It’s about the eternally single Christina finally getting her head turned into coupledom by a man (Peter, played by Thomas Jane. No, me neither) that she’s met once, for a few minutes. While he’s on his stag-do (though to be fair, Christina doesn’t know it’s his stag-do). 

This film is every bad 00’s gross-out, Pick- Me-Cool -Girl trope summed up in a messy, seemingly endless 90 minutes. It’s the whitest, most heteronormative, unfunny film ever. Gayness is a joke. There’s a way too long scene where it looks like Christina is going down in Courtney in the car. There’s a random snog between 2 butch biker guys, a singing camp cop and a joke about bathroom glory holes, and Christina Applegate getting her fake boobs aggressively felt up by multiple women in a club toilet. (I know that this could be making a joke about women doing this in club loos on nights out, but then…there’s a load of men watching them do it, and…yuck).

 There’s random musical interludes which includes a song about a dick being too big, and Jane gets her tonsils caught on a genital piercing. Christina and Courtney get soaking wet in one of those weird ‘car wash/ burst pipe’ scenes that always seem to pop up in pre-2010 films. There’s a joke about a semen stain on a dress that goes for about 5 minutes longer than it should have done.

 Only Jane seems to have a job, and the only reason we see her there is because she has sex with a man in an elephant costume while she’s supposed to be working. Christina is apparently an interior designer, the most chick-lit job ever, along side ‘works at a publisher’.

 In the end credits bloopers, Applegate and Diaz stick their stomachs out and make jokes about being fat. All three of the leading female cast are so unrealistically, painfully thin (though this seems to be Diaz’s natural body type, so I am not going to hate on her too much) another 00’s thing, the requirement that women’s bodies should be as small as possible, razor-blade hipbones poking above the low-rise jeans, arms that look like they couldn’t lift a can of beans.

This tells you everything you need to know about the level of humour we're dealing with here

The only thing I truly enjoyed about the film was its wardrobe, which then was VERY fashionable – I would have worn a lot of things like that. The skinny bootcuts, pointy- toed, stiletto heeled boots, cropped handkerchief tops, one-shoulder tops, sparkly make-up…ugh, I get the Gen Z hate for the hairstyles. Jane’s how do you get a short, straight bob to flip up at the ends? Why does Christina have the Super Noodles perm at the end of the film?

 Oh, and the film starts by someone randomly interviewing all the men that Christina has rejected. WHY? It’s never explained, and crops up again at the end when all 3 women are coupled up and Courtney seems to be interviewing Peter about… Christina. Then they all break the fourth wall and ask why you’re watching the credit bloopers.

 A woman wrote this film. Does she hate women? It feels like she hates women. And gay people. Possibly Chinese people too. I’m going to assume that her reason for having zero black people in the cast is because film was apparently based on her and her real-life friends, and they didn’t know any.

 This film would 100% not get made today, and for that we should be grateful. Films like this, and the others I mentioned formed much of my romantic expectations in life, because I was in my early 20s when I first saw them, and I was dumb.

 Ugh, I feel so old saying ‘these days’, but…these days…we have films like I Am Not OK With This, Booksmart, Assassination Nation, and Lady Bird, which are telling different stories, different kinds of love, different kinds of bodies. I wish they’d been around 20 years ago. What different messages would I have got, about romance, relationships with men, with friends, with myself?

 That’s enough deepness for a Bank Holiday Monday.

 What I am saying is, don’t watch The Sweetest Thing. Watch of the four films mentioned above instead. Start with Booksmart, it’s great.

 

 

Lady Bird

I Am Not OK With This

Booksmart

Assassination Nation

 

 

He's a Rotten Peach - Fuck You, Armie Hammer

 

Chalamet and Hammer in Call Me by Your Name, (2017)

This is a post I started in Autumn of last year, and never finished. I seemed to have swathes of free time on my hands as the UK went into a third lockdown, but I couldn’t bring myself to keep logged in and staring at a screen. Work was intensely, insanely busy – it seems people could cope OK with the first and second lockdowns, but completely lost their minds during the third.

I still can’t finish the post, at least not as I had originally intended to, and that’s because of you, Armie Hammer.

Last summer I read André Aciman's novel Call Me by Your Name, on which the 2017 film of the same name is based. Precocious 17-year-old Elio (played by Timothée Chalamet in the film version) is spending the summer at the family home on the Italian coast, being a typical teenager, mooching around, being moody and slightly awkward in his own skin.

When his father’s graduate student assistant, 24-year-old Oliver (Armie Hammer) shows up, Elio falls in love with him. Oliver is everything Elio is not – older, worldlier, more at ease with himself.   A summer romance follows, ending when Oliver returns to the US and breaks Elio’s heart.

I loved the film. What could be a more perfect film to watch on a freezing cold, dark January night than a love story set in sun-soaked Italy? I wanted to be there, under the apricot trees and by the pool and in the piazza eating gelato and drinking wine and smoking strong cigarettes in the sun.  Both the film and the book sparked a nostalgia in me, for the intenseness of teenage crushes, the pain of unrequited love (Oliver is so off-hand and cool with his treatment of Elio) and for the heat of endless summer holidays.

I grew up in the UK, and we only went on holiday in the UK, so summer holidays definitely did not involve swims in the pool, siestas and endless sunny days. They involved rain-lashed caravans, walks and picnics, arguing about to watch on the telly and my little brother doing things like getting lost on Bodmin Moor.

That is where the first part of the original post ends. I had wanted to write about my crushes on both Elio and Oliver, how their sweet romance had stayed with me long after the film had ended and the final page of the book was turned. I’d have to delete it now, anyway, if I had finished it.

Someone asks you who Armie Hammer is, and you say, ‘He was in Call Me by Your Name,’ and they’ll say, ‘that gawky kid with the curly dark hair?’ and you’ll say, ‘no, the other one,’ and they’ll go, ‘oh, is that his name! What else has he been in?’ and you’ll think and think and think but you can’t remember anything else.

You will have seen him in something else. You will have seen him in loads of things, and not realised or have immediately forgotten. Credits include Netflix’s Godawful Rebecca remake, Sorry to Bother You, (a film that I would describe as a social satire body horror, where he plays a coke-addled, power-hungry, nightmare...so,.. himself, then) Nocturnal Animals (I have seen that film twice and have absolutely no idea who he is in it) Mirror Mirror, Wounds (Netflix original horror, I had no idea what was going on 90% of the time, and I don’t think the film did either)  He was in The Man from U.N.C.L.E , J. Edgar and The Lone Ranger. Most notable is probably The Social Network where he played the Winklevoss twins, and then voiced them again in an episode of The Simpsons. While The Simpsons is now far from what it was in terms of cultural reach and popularity, I feel that if an actor guests on there and people still don’t know who they are, something has gone terribly awry.

In a 2017 Buzzfeed article entitled 10 Long Years of Trying to Make Armie Hammer happen, Anne Helen Petersen writes in-depth about his failure to make it into the kind of Hollywood stardom other actors seemed to have achieved so effortlessly. It should have been easy for him, after all. He’s 6’5. He's blonde-haired and blue-eyed, and handsome in the way of an old Hollywood era leading man like Marlon Brando or Paul Newman. He has a distinctive voice that’s sexy, hypnotic in a ‘could read the phone book to me and it would be fascinating’ kind of way. As has been previously quoted, if you were going to cast someone as a fairy-tale prince, you’d pick him. Would have picked him.

But then he says stuff, unthinking, cringey over-sharing stuff, like how he had ‘certain interests’ he had ‘smothered down’ (I paraphrase) because it’s not respectful to pull your wife’s hair during sex, which seems to indicate he does the old Madonna/Whore trope thing, where he separates women into the categories of the women you fuck and the women you marry, and never the twain shall meet. Or that he allegedly liked a bunch of BDSM tweets and follows young girls on his PUBLIC Instagram, like some kind of digital-age Jimmy Savile. He even has the Jimmy Savile attire down, being fond of a matching tracksuit combo, like he grew up on 1990s Liverpool housing estate instead of the Cayman Islands. Except he doesn't even know how to wear one properly.

Also…no-one wants a prince who allegedly declared, ‘I am 100% a cannibal’ and ‘I want to chop off your toe and carry it around with me,’ as if a toe is not demented trophy hand-selected from Jeffrey Dahmer’s box of Precious Things, but some some kind of cute lucky charm

January 2021. Armie Hammer tweets that he’s ready kick the shit out of this year, and demands that you kneel before him. Presumably so that he can kick you in the face and trample over you while he’s on his way out to join Pinky and the Brain in trying to take over the world. 2020 had been tough on him. He had spilt up with his wife Elizabeth in the middle of the pandemic. Isolation with Elizabeth and their two young children on a beautiful island was too much for him. Or maybe it was because she had allegedly discovered he was allegedly cheating on her. While she was pregnant. At least we didn’t have to hear them tunelessly screech a line from Imagine in their fuck-off massive garden. Unless I have forgotten that he did that as well, in which a double fuck you for that Armie Hammer.

He talks about this time in depth in a video interview with Jonathan Heaf from British GQ. He talks about his depression and how he’s having therapy and how he’s trying to get in a healthier mind space (while drinking a martini at 10am, always the sign of someone with a healthy approach to life. But I guess that kind of thing is OK if you’re a movie star, and not, say, an unemployed heroin addict living in a tower block and it’s a can of industrial strength cider instead of posh vodka).

There’s something performative about his interview, something that feels disingenuous and off.  I went back and watched others, they are kind of the same. He’s charming, often funny, and he can make an otherwise boring story sound like a great adventure. It just seems like he’s doing a ‘bit’, like it’s another role for him. Armie Hammer in the Armie Hammer Story. Staring Armie D Hammer as himself. Written and directed by…eh, you get the idea.  He has a bit of a boys will be boys vibe, the hapless fool who gets himself into drunken scraps, wearing his charm like an asbestos coated scandal shield.

In the same GQ video interview Hammer and Heaf, (who, by the way, looks like what you'd get if you ordered Ross Geller from Wish)  recount a night out in the manner of some terrible douche-bag double act. It's this night out I think Heaf is talking about in the article linked below, where he wangs on about a mysterious photo which will NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY. What goes on tour stays on tour, eh lads? Waaayyyheeeey! Calm down, dickheads, you're hardly on tour with Mötley Crüe.

Hmmm princely!

I urge you to read Jonathan Heaf’s GQ lickarse piece on Hammer, which basically makes it sound like he’s obsessed with him and will do anything to impress him and be his friend. Half the article is about how drunk they got and how ferocious Heaf's hangover is. It's a bit like the last minute A-level essays I used to turn in when I hadn't done the reading I was supposed to, and thought, 'Ah, fuck it, I'll wing it. They'll never be able to tell.' Heaf seems very pleased with himself so getting so drunk that he can't really remember the night before, which puts him at maturity level: 18 years old. He can't stop going on about it. Here’s a now deleted Heaf tweet about his buddy Armie:

, 

You can decide for yourself if Heaf genuinely likes Hammer, or if Hammer has something on him so bad it would make AC-12 blush, and Heaf is tweeting as some kind of desperate damage control. The kind of damage control that eventually blows up in your stupid, stupid face because you should have listened to your mother and left well enough alone.

Heaf seems to be like that kid at school who does things like drink tip-ex to get in with the ‘cool kids’.  I have a theory that ‘that photo’ is not of Hammer, but of Heaf wrapped from head to foot in cling-film with some strategic hole placement and Hammer’s balls in his mouth (IT’S A JOKE, please don’t sue me. Wait, can you sue someone who has no money?)

I'll get off the topic of Jonathan Heaf in a moment, but I think it's this (and referring back to Anne Helen Petersen's Buzzfeed piece) that riles me so much. It seems you can get away with pretty much anything if you're male, white, good-looking and rich. 

Not long after that Hammer sent his January 2021 tweet, a woman, who I'll call 'A'  (her name is public if you want to look it up) came forward, alleging that she had been in a relationship with him since 2016, and over that time he was sexually violent, emotionally abusive and a rapist. What had apparently started off as a consensual BDSM relationship had turned into something very much not consensual.  Things had escalated quickly with Hammer. A says that she ‘met’ the actor in 2016, when they exchanged social media messages. She was then 20, he was 30 and had already been married for a few years to Elizabeth.

Before I proceed, just assume that I am saying, ‘allegedly’ before any of these statements from now on, because Hammer of course is denying any of this took place, at least, not in the way Woman A frames it did.

While most of their ‘relationship’ seems to have been conducted on-line, they apparently did meet and there was a night where A claims Hammer raped her for 4 hours and wouldn’t let her leave. This is an allegation that the LAPD (who I have zero faith in) say they are now investigating. In messages between them, Hammer seems to brush off the seriousness of her claim, saying that neither of them thought to decide on a safe-word beforehand, and he didn’t realise she wasn’t into it. This in some extreme cases becomes known as 'The Rough Sex Defence' - when men kill their female partner in bed and say it was 'by accident during rough sex'.

To some Hammer supporters, Woman A’s claims aren’t helped by further leaked messages that seem to show she in was in touch with him years after this incident took place, but this of course, is an extremely reductive view of the relationship between abuser and the abused. I am sure there are people who have stories of how they repeatedly sought out, and went back to, an abusive partner, for many reasons that are often very complex. Just like the messages that Woman A released herself, there’s no evidence that the messages are actually between them. You could say that Hammer leaked the explicit messages Woman A sent him 3 years after the alleged rape took place in an effort to discredit her version of events… no-one knows for sure at the moment. 

An added complication has been Woman A's attitude towards other survivors that have come forward, including racism. Woman A seems to say that this other woman is lying because she isn't Hammer's usual type (I believe she is Black) Let me be clear; you can be both a survivor and not a very nice person at the same time. I think it may also be possible that Woman A is struggling to come to terms with the fact she wasn't the only one, and therefore, she isn't special.  Reading Hammer's alleged messages to the woman, and his MO becomes clear. It's the same thing over and over again; he can't control himself around them, they are the only ones that make him feel this way. To quote Dorothy Parker:

Lady, lady, should you meet
One whose ways are all discreet,
One who murmurs that his wife
Is the lodestar of his life,
One who keeps assuring you
That he never was untrue,
Never loved another one . . .

Lady, lady, better run! 

Then other women came forward; 2 ex -girlfriends, B, and C  (again their names are public if you want to look them up) who made remarkably similar allegations. That he would contact them on social media, tell a story about a sad rich boy whose dad didn’t seem to love him very much and whose mother was a Cayman Island Margaret White, waking him in the night to sprinkle oil over him, shouting ‘the power of Christ compels you!’  This is how it goes down in my head, anyway, and it's not a secret that his mother is very religious. Hammer has talked about that’s why she has never seen Call Me by Your Name.

From what I can gather, there’s now at least 7 women telling this same story – B and C, D who have made their names public and E, F and G who haven’t. He allegedly called all these women ‘kittens’ (which I assume was so he didn’t have to remember their all names, as there seems to be cross over between them), and demanded that they call him ‘Daddy’. I know ‘Daddy’ is a thing, but just no. No thank-you.

Then there was a theory floating around that Hammer might be a serial killer after remains were found in the Joshua Tree National Park, not far from where, at the time, he was helping his friend build a hotel.  As a side note, I cannot imagine Hammer being any use at building or DIY, and have a vision of him begging to be allowed to use the tile cutter, and his mate saying, ‘no, you can’t use the tile cutter, you know what happens when you use the tile cutter…but you can screw in the light bulbs if you want, though, yeah?’

Aside from the fact that the remains were of a woman missing since 2019 (so, before Hammer was working on the hotel), the serial killer theory seems to stem from the extremely violent and graphic messages that Hammer has allegedly sent women. They include choking them to blackout; wanting them to cut off pieces of themselves and cooking it for him; opening their skulls and fucking their brains; smashing their bones, drinking their blood and violating them in another thousand revolting, stomach churning ways that would even freak Patrick Bateman out. 

 He hits some of the markers on the now discredited serial killer profile checklist:

        Over-bearing, religious zealot mum (if it's not one thing it's...)

        Cold, unloving or absent father 

    A history of setting fires and animal abuse. He apparently set fires at school and there's a message exchange with him and Woman A where he says he almost choked his dog to death because he was thinking about her and went into some kind of trance.

 I don't think Hammer is a serial killer,  (if he is, he's late to the game as most of them start before they're in their 30s)  but I’d love him to take the Bob Hare psychopath test and see what that throws back.

What this all amounts to, is, fuck you Armie Hammer. Fuck you for ruining one of my favourite ‘escape for a few hours’ films. Fuck you for ruining the book on which it’s based. Fuck you for getting so many undeserved chances that you repeatedly fuck up. Fuck you because you’ll probably get away with this and we’ll have to watch you play some version of yourself yet again.  Fuck you for being an abusive, violent, manipulative arsehole who won't take any accountability for anything you have done.  Even if you did apologise, I wouldn’t believe you. It would be as sincere as Ted Bundy blaming porn for the reason he murdered so many women, as hollow as a chocolate Easter egg, as empty as bucket with a hole in it.

Also, I hate the fact you like some of the same music I do, so thanks for ruining those songs  for me too. 

Also. You have a fucking stupid name.