In Arms

When you have been breastfed by Brad Pitt you quickly come to realise that life will not be all hard or all soft. As in all things, a middle path. The third way, as it is had. Some say “Hey, that whole Brad Pitt thing – I was so surprised!’ Others, equally, go, “Surely, isn’t that fucked?” Well, perhaps there are stranger things. Who are we? Going with the soft: he is reassuring; you get some of his qualities; it’s an ice-breaker (later). The hard can be “I suppose you think you’re quite something well let me tell you mister I don’t care if Novak Djokovic makes your sandwiches to me you are a stain on some fabric.” You think of his eyes and hair, that rubbed off on you, how he was unwavering and unconditional and unjudgmental and uncomplaining and unperturbed and unpatronising and undemanding and unswerving

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