The problem is that you’re utterly miserable to be around, you hate everything, you pick fights over nothing, you’re massively insecure about everything, you’re ignorant and selfish, in bed and everywhere else, you’re mentally a wreck and can’t even get it together to cook dinner for me, you don’t eat pussy and yes you do in fact have a small dick.
I wonder if my literary friend looks like Alan Rickman now. It’s been many years, and he did have that potential. He was amazingly gay, in the classiest way possible. Meaning he was brilliant and deserved the highest respect without even considering him as a sexual, or even human, being. And that respect was ironclad and untouchable even if you found him passed out on a trail in the woods covered in nothing but glitter and dirt at 10am on a Tuesday.