well, fuck.

Rahul: ...You don't want to know.

Rahul: They're all so salty.

Emma: Aw. You okay, bud?

Emma: If it's any consolation, otters hold hands when they sleep so they don't float away from one another

Why would I send a raven? Didn’t people used to send doves? I don’t like ravens, they just scream bad juju to me. Doves are prettier. I want to say you bought another pretzel, to be honest with you Emma, but I feel like you’re such a wild card that you could come out with something completely different right now. I’m more surprised that you went outside to buy a pretzel. Is the Zac Efron movie marathon over?

Did Jon Snow send doves out of Winterfell? No, Camila. He sent ravens. They are dark and dramatic and they mean business. Pizza Hut will shoo away your dove, because they are pretty and light and inconsequential. Be dark and ominous. Dark and ominous gets shit done. Unfortunately, the Efron hours are up and so I am forced to lurk outside in search of a real-life equivalent. Then I will trap him. After I eat my two pretzels and -- you got me -- not a third pretzel, an ice cream cone. God, I am so predictable.

I think it’s pretty obvious we can all agree on how beautiful this place is, like holyfuckingshit, so damn beautiful. But it never occurred to me how big it was, either. I’ve been here for nearly a week already, (where the fuck does time go?) and I’ve struggled to get past this cool little cafe down by where I live. I need exploring places! And an exploring buddy, before I’m forced carry 2 hundred pound cats around with me. Has anybody found any cool hangout spots? Or are you plagued by your pets too? In that case, we need a pet-date.

I don’t have any pets, I just have me -- which is just as much out an outside world deterrent as your hundred pound cats, apparently. I swear, everyone is rambling on about nature and fresh air and whatnot, but I’ve seen trees before. You’ve seen trees before. What we haven’t seen is the new episode of The Great British Bake-Off. What we haven’t seen is the s’more cake from my hotel room service menu. You can’t find a cake made of s’mores out where the people are, David. You find it here. With Emma. And this giant ass flatscreen TV. 

renner: well i can't inflate your head too much can i? i have to be semi fair and semi harsh. you know that! i am a dad after all.

renner: it's exhausting at times.

renner: which chris?

renner: my dashing good looks and my irresistible charm

emma: yeah, but you're not my dad! you are my super flattering friend jeremy who lies for the sake of my happiness. try it sometime

emma: the one in the small shirts. i will use him as bait to trap the one with the hammer

emma: see, now I'M going to play the super flattering friend who lies for the sake of your happiness. take notes

seb: Wow, yep. 10/10, there it is. I'm in love with you.

emma: hell yeah, you are

Don’t do that! Think of the Oscars! Think of the Prince, Emma! Lost in her eyes? I’m going to need to hear that story! I’ll bring the wine, the ice cream, the kitten (and take some allergy meds), and anything else you need. I know, I’m just that great, to be honest.

What Oscars? I’ve got one, I don’t need another. What I need is a sweet release from this disrespect. And a monopoly game night with Oprah, which you will most definitely not be invited to. Ah, it’s barely a story. Basically, I see her, freeze up and do the classic smile-and-nod until she floats away. On a unicorn, probably. I never notice, I’m too busy wiping the drool off my face. Anything else I need? Great. Ellen’s head on a stick. Go.

While you speak the voice of your mom telling me that you’re full of shit keeps playing in my head. Honestly, though? I think even my mom voted for Chloe. She’s my little sister. Yet I won, fuckers. It’s so sad to see y’all jealous. I’m fine with our deal but you’ll have to find someone to provide you with all those donuts. That someone won’t be me. I’ll be busy. I have a language to learn and French directors to beg. Being me is exhausting. I sense judgement in your voice. What do you have against drunk, sobby people? Our lives are hard. But what would you know about tough life? You’re Tom Hardy’s delusional fake wife who’s convinced that he’s able to build a boat with his bare hands. Please.  You marrying him is more realistic than him building anything other than your hopes. More than Tom Hardy, he’s Tom Hard-ly going to do anything good of his life. And no – this isn’t me being jealous of the affection you seem to harbor for him. Nooope.

Chloe’s your little sister? Right. That explains why I was so compelled to vote for Daisy Ridley. Oh, please. One look at me in my sexy corn costume and those French directors will be begging you. Actually, probably not. They’ll skip right over you and pair me with Mila Kunis, because God damn it, she would make a sexy artichoke. Which will give you plenty of spare, jobless time to buy my French Oscar-winning love with all those donuts. See? Don’t sweat it. Part-Time Mother Emma’s got it all figured out. I know you’re trying to convince me otherwise, but you are literally just proving my point. As Tom Hardy’s delusional real wife, the hardest thing I would ever know would be his rock-hard abs. Which could probably also be used to grate cheese and wash clothes, which will cut my real life responsibility time in half. Which means that I will have a shitload of extra time to plan grand gestures of love and devotion for my hot little side piece Jealous Jen. And provide for our bastard son, Emma Jr. Boat or no boat, I will be sailing. 

Well Ava has officially caused the first over protective dad panic attack. We were walking down the street after taking a quick trip to the mall and Ava saw this little boy walking with his mom. I thought nothing of it until she tugs on my hand and looks up at me with the most serious of faces and instantly says “daddy he has a cute butt. I wanna get to know him.” Umm sorry Ava but you’re four and you can just focus on your barbies, you don’t need to worry about boys until you’re like fifty.

She wants to get to know him? Well, at least she’s confident. I see a cute butt and my social anxiety says ‘Run for the hills, Emma! Don’t let him see you cry!’ I’m a serious crier. It’s both embarrassing and dehydrate-ing. Anyway, I don’t even make eye contact with children, so I have no idea what to tell you. I’m just going to Hallmark it, okay? She may be getting older and pervier, but she will always be your little girl. How was that? Reassuring? 

I followed a guy around the streets today because he looked like a pizza delivery guy. I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I had pizza and there he was looking all… pizza guyish? What was I supposed to do? I thought he would lead me right into a pizza place but noope. Turns out he was just on his way to the golfing range. So, to make myself not look like a creepy stalker, I obviously had to start hitting some golf balls and I’ve learned that I have a pretty good swing and now I have golf friends. How was your day?

That was a ridiculous story that I have chosen not to acknowledge any further. Jeez, Camila. If you want pizza, Google it. Or send a raven, if you’re so determined to do it the old fashioned way. Anyway, I’m done acknowledging that story. Let’s talk about me. Today I bought a pretzel. Then, I ate the pretzel. Then, I threw the pretzel wrapper in the bin. And then, I bought another pretzel. Then, I ate the pretzel. Then, I threw the pretzel wrapper in the bin. And then -- can you guess what happened next?

I think I may be coming down with flu, which isn’t very fun when you’re in a place like this. I still haven’t managed to get out and see much - so the fact that I’m more than likely only going to be able to see the inside of my bedroom for the next few days and eat nothing but soup is sort of disappointing. What has everyone else been up to? Have you found any must see spots yet?

I hate to break it to you, Other Emma, but the flu isn’t very fun when you’re in any place. But the inside of a bedroom for days on end? Hell yes. I’ve been living the bedroom life for the last few weeks, and it is ridiculously satisfying. There’s so much to do! You can lie in bed. You can sit on the couch. You can lie on the other side of the bed... the possibilities are endless. And soup! Do you know how many different kinds of soup there are? It’s ridiculous. It’s amazing. You, my friend, are in for a delightful holiday.

“D'you ever just think about Helen of Troy and get quite angry, because everyone treated her like rubbish? I don’t know, mate. I studied the Trojan War back in secondary school and the whole time I kept wonderin’ why everyone blamed her for the war. The face that launched a thousand ships my ass. It was Agamemnon and Menelaus.” Harry shakes his head, laughing, realizing he might just be talking nonsense to the other. “Just, ancient women aren’t too far off from our modern day women. Just a thought.” 

Emma raised an eyebrow at the other, thoroughly confused by the course that the conversation had taken. “Why is it that everytime I leave my room, I pay dearly for it? Yesterday, I got shat on by birds and today I’m getting shat on by ninth grade history.” She shook her head exaggeratedly, reaching for her drink and sliding it towards her. “This is Monaco, Harry. It’s supposed to be a safe, education-free space. Unless you want to tell me that my face could launch a thousand ships. I have no idea what it means, but it sounds badass and I agree.”

What a coincidence, your mom and I have a deal, too! One day she called me and was like, “listen, Jen, Emma is full of shit. Pretend you believe everything she says and make our girl happy”. I agreed and here I am now… nodding and smiling. You don’t even have my mom’s number, do you? You just want to parent me, try to get in my head and force me to watch Cheetah Girls when all I want to do is get drunk and cry. Guess what? Your plan failed, Stone. What are you going to do now? If you make porn with me I’ll let you be my mother for a solid two hours on Thursday. Between two and three pm. That’s when I nap, usually. You can do much better than Tom Hardy. And you were criticizing my standards, pfft. Do you want to know who’s better than him? Moi. 

Oh, please. As if my mother would make plans with you. She didn’t even vote for you for the Teen Choice Awards. She voted for Chloe Grace Moretz. She thinks your win was a fluke. I don’t need your mom’s number, Lawrence. I email her. Like a classy, old school broad. Um, excuse me for wanting to raise you right. Excuse me for wanting to light up your life with a story of friendship, first love and sick beats. Two hours every Thursday, and a jam donut for every hour that I don’t get to spend teaching you how to use cutlery. Then, we’ll have ourselves a porno party. Alright, but while you’re drunk-sobbing in the corner, Tom Hardy and I will be sailing on a yacht. That he built. With his bare hands. Because he is a man. Look at him, he’s like part mountain. So strong, so capable. So not drunk or sobby. 

Die because you’re out there touching leaves. That’s what. That’s me, I’ll be Mommy dearest. My life will now be a constant “Don’t touch that, Emma!” “Don’t do that, Emma!” I’ll even carry my own little bottle of hand sanitiser around for whenever I see you. I can’t have you running around the streets with dirty hands, can I? I know. Imagine that. It brings you so much joy, yet, so so much pain. Leo in a one man show? Count me in to be in the audience of that movie. Yes I will deny the world of that, Emma Stone, I have declared myself your Mother now and I can do what I want. America will be fine. Orlando Bloom is going to be Will Turner in the Pirates movie again soon. They’ll have new eye candy. Then when I ditch your husband and children for Will Turner i’ll be part of the worlds most bangin’ power couple. Problem solved. Got it. Job accepted. I’m taking it seriously. I’m practicing my claps as we speak.

And here I thought that my cause of death would be Henry Cavill’s basement. I’d be hanging around, waiting for the perfect moment to slide into the real life equivalent of his DM’s, then bam. Starvation, dehydration, taken down by the man himself.... Sigh. What a way to go. And y’all thought that Titanic was his most tragic work. Wait until you see him eat himself. Well, himself as a pastry, but -- still just as harrowing. But moooom! Quit embarrassing me! I’m not a little girl anymore! I can make my own, Efron-centric life choices! God.  Will Turner? That’s the other half of your bangin’ power couple? You’re a joke, mom. At least hit up Gordon Ramsay first, have some respect for yourself. Orlando Bloom will once again disappear from from the face of the Earth once Pirates disappears from cinemas, but Gordon Ramsay will live forever. Trust me on this. I’m one half of the Efron-Stone machine. I know power.