I admit it. My buttons are circled in neon lime and are bigger than Natalie Portman’s nipples.
Today some emo twat on FB called Ernest Miller dead *and* crap for dialog. ¿That shit?
And to back up his point he presented, as an alternative, a modern author whose critically acclaimed best-seller has a title which apes The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.
Y’all know I’d enjoy prison, yeah? Get some fucking writing done.