Hosted Ira’s play reading and it is hilarious and these people are good people.
First reading of Heart!
Azealia Banks - Yung Rapunxel
Somehow, scarier than the Eli Roth shit she’s got going on in her actual video.
So it’s best Jamie Foxx doesn’t look like this in Amazing Spider-Man 2, but who wants to bet that Beyoncé could pull this look off? SOMEONE PUT HER ON THE SOUNDTRACK.
tell me she’s not a superhero
She’s giving you Dazzler realness.
“…at one point in life the woman that he loves fell into my lap.”
The words echo in Amanda Bynes’ mind as she listens to Drake’s East Village Radio interview on loop. “…at one point in life the woman that he loves fell into my lap.” “…at one point in life the woman that he loves fell into my lap.” What about the woman who loves him? Is there not room enough in his lap for her? Or rather, is there plenty of room as if Drake were a mall Santa at Westfield Century on the penultimate hour of a Christmas Eve work shift?
Rihanna. Everyone is in love with Rihanna. Chris Brown. Law & Order staff writers. And even the U.S. Navy, which seems to be comprised of her fans, for reasons unknown to Amanda. People don’t attack her on Twitter as they do Amanda. They rejoice in her ratchetness, embrace her lighthearted tomfoolery, smoke ‘em peace pipe with her as if she were Princess Fucking Tigerlily and the world were not only Rihanna’s oyster, but her throng of horny, undersexed Lost Boys.
Amanda stares at her computer screen, hands trembling, scrolling through the latest article raking her over the coals. Even her Ace of Base Pandora station taunts her by playing an early, Caribbean-tinged Rihanna track. She reaches for the bottle. Her hand are still unsteady. A shot of a whiskey calms her nerves. Steadies her hands… they’re fit for surgery at this point.
“Na na na na…” Rihanna’s rasta voice wails.
Amanda’s hand shakes again. More shots. Steady. “Na na na na…” Trembling. Shots. Steady. The same merri-go-round until everything goes black.
When she awakes, the police have already been called. A grizzled detective stands before her, hands on his hips. “I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”
The trail of blood on the linoleum floor, leading up her leg. Amanda knows what has happened. Her portentous tweet has come true, casting her in the role of a social media Cassandra.
“My vagina…” Amanda gasps. “It’s been…”
“Murdered,” the detective finishes. “And unless you have an alibi…”
“I was here all night. With Twitter.”
“Twitter’s not an alibi, ma’am.”
Amanda looks to her feed. If one part of her tweet came true, then surely, the other half must also have come to fruition.
“I know who murdered my vagina,” Amanda says finally.
“Give us a name.”
She takes a deep breath, then exhales and braces herself to speak a name she only allows herself to whisper underneath her bedroom comforter: “Drake.”7 notes