Pweeter

Leave please.

Leave.

I swear to god.

Closed door writing room times. We were all going mildly crazy there, and that insanity manifested itself in all sorts of ways.

I believed, behind closed doors, I'd pretend to be a mentally challenged stripper and give someone a lap dance. Joe and I would find horrendous, disgusting, vile photos on the Internet and send them to Steve with captions like "New Breaking Bad news!" or something, and it would be a photo of... stuff I refuse to conjure in my memories.

I don't look too far into the future, but a Grammy is obviously next on the docket.