You like hanging out with the Bone in his apartment. It reminds you of when you were sixteen, in your own small town in Connecticut, and you used to hang out with this guy who was really beautiful and you'd smoke pot and your parents would think you were off riding your horse. They'd never know the truth.
You look out his window at the sunlight on the backs of tatty little brownstones. "I've wanted to have kids ever since I was a kid," the Bone says. "It's my dream."
But that was before. Before all this stuff happened to the Bone. Before now.
A couple of weeks ago, the Bone got offered a second lead in an ensemble movie starring all the cool young Hollywood actors. He went to a party and accidentally ended up going home with one of the other actors' girlfriends, a new supermodel. The actor threatened to kill the Bone and the supermodel, and she and the Bone temporarily fled the city. Only Stanford knows where they are. Stanford calls and says he's been on the phone constantly. Hard Copy offered the Bone money to appear, and Stanford said to them, "Who do you think he is—Ivana Trump's butler?"
The Bone says, "I just don't believe the bullshit. It's still me. I haven't changed. People are always telling me, Don't ever change. What am I going to change into? An egomaniac? A prick? An asshole? I know myself really well. What do I want to change into?"
"Why are you laughing?" he asks.
"I'm not laughing," you say. "I'm crying."
Stanford says, "Have you ever noticed how the Bone has no scent whatsoever?"