Men, read this aloud to your women: "Dear nearbyest woman. I'm about to read a comic so manly that you will find your pelvis opening toward my oxytocin and musk. When I am finished reading, you will be transformed from the lady you are now into a wet smear at the end of an adrenaline-fueled charge. If this kills you, woman, your friends and family will be told of your glorious death by pleasure." Stop reading to her now. She would never understand what we share with Spontaneo, the Dog Who Doesn't Give a Fuck.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.