Amber Heard--you're beautiful. You're talented, eloquent, proud, and fierce as all hell. And you love talking about your girlfriend, which I love.
It doesn't hurt any that you look good in (and out of) anything. You could wade in a tub of mayo and make it haute couture.
So it really isn't saying much about you as it is about Kate when I say you have a long way to go before you reach the stratospheric levels of perfection that is Kate in the latest Harper's.
I mean, look at you:
And then look at her:
Goodness gracious, and then some lingerie? Is, is that lace--*swallow*--c-cupping her--those magnificent works of art-- And that posture.
My brain stopped. Or died.
Even when you're getting kinky with yourself, and as much as I'm into that (I AM), there's something about Kate's subtle, understated sexuality that takes the whole cake. Even if you're crawling on the floor in a painted-on leather catsuit, and Kate just looks bored as fuck counting the thread count of the sheet.
I don't mean to compare, because that's just unfair to you both. But I had to go there because I live there 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Where Kate is my queen, and I, her bitch.
You don't resent me, do you? After all, aren't all women a little bit in love with her? Aren't you?
