Tom Hiddleston | Esquire (US) February 2012 | ph. Max Vadukul
jesus.
Christ…
What.
WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT?
Oh, it’s no problem Tom, I didn’t need to fucking sleep.
And why are you always posing in fucking condemned places Tom?
I bet they were just fucking fine before you fucking waltzed in wearing you fancy and probably really expensive fucking outfit and stupid face. Then you have to go fucking strut your goddamn stuff through the innocent fucking door and shit just fucking crumbles under your intense fucking gaze. The walls and shit just fucking fall over - if they could talk they’d be fucking screaming in pain, the furniture all come to life, jump out the window and run the fuck away, the windows shatter -no. EXFUCKINGPLODE - getting fucking little glass shards of death everywhere. But they float to you and just, like, fucking weave themselves into your aura and hair and just make you so fucking sparkly. Like a sparkly angel of pain and destruction.
And even though the photographer has glass shards permanently embedded into their eyeballs they still manage to take this goddamn fucking picture of you.
So I’ll fucking stay up till four fucking am.
Fucking asshole.
