Feeling sufficiently homesick, and now it’s for a home I won’t be able to return to the way I’ve always known it to be. This is stressful.
Just let me rest in the arms of my beloved as the rain falls softly and quietly outside
Please just make that moment last forever
Set me as a seal on your heart
Set me as a seal on your soul
For strong as death is love
Unyielding as the grave
Nothing will quench its flame
Nothing will quench its flame
Tonight, discussing renovations left to be done on his house, he asked me what color I wanted the kitchen counters to be.
Don’t tell anyone but my heart may have skipped a couple of beats.
What is it about human nature that makes us second guess everything that’s good?
Why do we sabotage ourselves?
Why do we want to leave the things we love the most?
Why are we so scared?
Remember that time on ANTM where that one girl was crying about hating plain oatmeal
Holy moly I love that man
Phil Hoffman and I had two things in common. We were both fathers of young children, and we were both recovering drug addicts. Of course I’d known Phil’s work for a long time — since his remarkably perfect film debut as a privileged, cowardly prep-school kid in Scent of a Woman — but I’d never met him until the first table read for Charlie Wilson’s War, in which he’d been cast as Gust Avrakotos, a working-class CIA agent who’d fallen out of favor with his Ivy League colleagues. A 180-degree turn.
On breaks during rehearsals, we would sometimes slip outside our soundstage on the Paramount lot and get to swapping stories. It’s not unusual to have these mini-AA meetings — people like us are the only ones to whom tales of insanity don’t sound insane. “Yeah, I used to do that.” I told him I felt lucky because I’m squeamish and can’t handle needles. He told me to stay squeamish. And he said this: “If one of us dies of an overdose, probably 10 people who were about to won’t.” He meant that our deaths would make news and maybe scare someone clean.
So it’s in that spirit that I’d like to say this: Phil Hoffman, this kind, decent, magnificent, thunderous actor, who was never outwardly “right” for any role but who completely dominated the real estate upon which every one of his characters walked, did not die from an overdose of heroin — he died from heroin. We should stop implying that if he’d just taken the proper amount then everything would have been fine.
He didn’t die because he was partying too hard or because he was depressed — he died because he was an addict on a day of the week with a y in it. He’ll have his well-earned legacy — his Willy Loman that belongs on the same shelf with Lee J. Cobb’s and Dustin Hoffman’s, his Jamie Tyrone, his Truman Capote and his Academy Award. Let’s add to that 10 people who were about to die who won’t now.
I’m also realizing that love and panic are the same feeling
Seems like everyone I know is having a baby this summer and for whatever reason it’s extremely stressful to me to see so many people I know entering THAT stage of life all at once
Like oh shit am I supposed to be thinking about that already? Am I behind because I don’t feel ready for that life yet?