I wish Gabriel Byrne was my therapist. I don't actually have a therapist, but I could totally listen to his psychic insights in Irish brogue all day long. I swear, I've crushed him since I was like seven. So sensitive, so thoughtful, so slightly pained and weighed down by the burdens of life. He's like a human sigh. Also, he seems like someone who reads a lot in his free time. Like he's read Ulysses and understands it and would explain it to you, kindly, not patronizing and all. And I bet he's kind to animals and kids and knows how to talk to them so they don't feel stupid. This is what I thought. But then I saw this picture online:
This isn't about her, Gabriel Byrne. Because I'm sure she's a perfectly nice person. I don't want you to think I'm judging her because she chooses not to wear a bra in public, or because she's half your age and made of plastic. This is about you, Gabriel Byrne. This is about the lies you've been propagating through your "I'm-so-pained-and-sensitive-and-see-the-beauty-in-things-other-people-don't" act. Really, Gabriel Byrne? Because I'm beginning to think your tastes are pretty conventional. Also, could you lend her your jacket because her nipples are showing through her shirt. I expected more from you, Gabriel Byrne. What else have you been keeping from me? I'm so disillusioned you a-hole.*
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