I used to care who you ended up with, believed looks you gave to A-list actors, declarations you made to them. But when Lea Michele fell for you, your over botox-ed face, that doesn’t even have botox in it, didn’t move and your dead eyes were Jack’s when my Mum met him when he took me for a picnic – she didn’t think I’d ever come back.
You don’t know how to emote yourself. You can’t create flickers when film’s running and you can’t fake sexual tension when there is none although I thought it was your job to but you seem to have hit cruise, and it’s not like you’d have won Oscars, that you’ll win them, but you’re giving up early in my eyes. Think who you could have had next: Jen, Jan, Jane, Emma, Teri, Kylie, Rich.
Lea suctions your mouth, gives it concentration like she’s singing, and you count through the salary increases in the next fifty years, trying to work out what you’re worth when you’re dead. Supposing there isn’t a cure by then.