I have the deepest affection for intellectual conversations. The ability to just sit and talk. About love, about life, about anything, about everything. To sit under the moon with all the time in the world, the full-speed train that is our lives slowing to a crawl. Bound by no obligations, barred by no human limitations. To speak without regret or fear of consequence. To talk for hours and about what’s really important in life.
Tom is coming out of a Detroit Publix when something catches his eye. It’s a man getting out of his recently parked Subaru. He finishes a bag of Baked Lays, crumples the vessel and - horror of horrors - throws it on the ground.
Tom is enraged. Does this man have no scruples? One does not simply litter! It is a detriment to public welfare! It hurts everyone.
Easy, Thomas. Perhaps it was an accident.
Tom calls out to the man, but he disappears around the corner. Oh, he’s done it now. This was no accident. This was a belligerent act of… of… belligerence!
Tom storms over to the car and picks up the bag of crisps. Retrieving a pen from his jacket pocket, Tom begins to write a strongly worded letter.
My name is Thomas William Hiddleston. You may know me from films such as Unrelated and The Gathering Storm. Or, you know, The Avengers. Anyway, I was exiting the adjacent Publix when I bore witness to your heinous actions - I saw this very bag flutter from between your fingers and onto the honestly pretty nasty Detroit pavement. I cried until my voice went, but still you refused to acknowledge your wrongdoing.
Pardon my French, sir, but how dare you? You are unfit to walk these streets of Motown. You are certainly unfit to own a Subaru, the likes of which I’ve never driven but am assured are quite lovely. You are unfit to breathe.