In case you can't read it:
You are a gem. But not one of those lame ones like the opal, where you can buy 'em at a gas station in rural towns, the kind you can fill a sack with for a dollar. No. You're like an emerald. Green and solid and shiny, and I think the metaphor ends there, because it'd be weird if I said you were a twinkly type or often found in rings. But not wedding rings. See. It's weird, and the rest of this post is TOTALLY NORMAL!
As a Hollywood star, I have some advise for you on your rise to stardom.
First off, don't shave your head in the spirit of Britney Spears. If you're gonna do it, go full on Sinead O'Connor, but don't rip up a pic of the Pope. The one we have now (Pope Francis) is pretty awesome. Seriously. Female deacons?! Catholicism will never be the same.
Secondly, if you become pals with the Kardashians, stow away some brain cells for later. Just in case they...leech them all away. [Theory, Kardashians are an alien race here to vacuum up our minds and replace intellect with mediocracy [sic]. (Isn't it mediocrity? See! It's happening already!)]
Finally, don't forget the little ppl.
Or the tall ppl.
Or the medium ppl.
Or John Stamos.
|If you don't believe the Hollywood bit, I'll have you know I was cast in that secret season of The X-Files where Mulder gets reassigned to me, Agent Fey, a forensic crytozoologist who's way better than Scully, especially at kissing.|
For you I have a drawing. And since I'm a regular Picasso, make sure to NEVER lose this! I mean, for real. And be sure to get insured for a half a mil. At least. And I give you full rights to make copies and sell them on the sly to pay for your Skittles habit. (Wait, Skittles isn't slang for some preppy, synthetic drug, right? Cuz, I just meant REGULAR Skittles. Not the kind you'd find in some guy named Blaine's Porsche. Speaking of Blaines, you know who I looooove? James Spader. He was fun in Boston Legal.
What was I saying?
Oh, yeah. ART.
Here it is.
The greatest drawing of all time!
Cue the crescendo!
Here's the mindless robot I hope you never become.
|I studied art under Thomas Kinkade and Banksy.|
The best part of the year has to be the time we took that field trip to the lavender fields, and that creepy scarecrow kept moving, and it chased us into the barn. And do you remember the crow?! So many crows! It was like a bird sanctuary! And why did that farmer have so many scythes?
Anyway, you were all upset about your haircut, but it didn't matter after we blew up the [propane] tank, and crows flew around like fireworks.
I wonder what happened to the scarecrow.
|Good times. But I think the lavender gave me an allergy attack.|
How fareth thee this lovely Wednesday? Wouldn't it be the worst if I wrote this whole thing in Shakespeare jargon? The worst.
Here's an unofficial photo editorial (or something) of The Bard.
This [collar] is much like a dog collar. But Billy needs it to keep from gnawing off his knuckles. He suffered, as I'm sure you know because it's common knowledge, from a condition called Knuckletillomania.
[At cheeks] The Bard often blushed around curtains. Can you imagine how red-faced he was at the Globe?! Yah. Poor guy looked like a baboon's butt.
[At chin.] Cheesy goatee. Mark McGrath stole it from the Bard. He also stole sonnets. Did you know Sugar Ray is all about the sonnets? Oh yeah.
|It's all true, I swear to Godot.|
Also, is that how you spell goatee? Spell-checker says, "Yas."