We’re trying to get a three day prep done in two days because of the holiday tomorrow, I’m the only locations person out here in buttfuck Long Island dealing with logistics for a main unit, a tandem, and a base camp that’s three miles away, and you, a set dresser I’ve never seen before, have the audacity to ask me, the person you haven’t seen sit still all day, what’s going on with crafty? Go fuck yourself. No, seriously: go fuck yourself. You just got back from lunch a half hour ago. It’s not my fault if you wasted your hour sleeping in your car. I don’t even get a lunch break because there are four different departments here and they never break at the same time. But you’re worried about where the granola bars, potato chips, and trail mix are? Go fuck yourself. I brought you boxes of coffee this morning and I took individual breakfast orders instead of just handing you a microwaved Dunkin’ Donuts sandwich and a dozen donuts. I’ve kept you guys stocked with water, and I’ve answered every seemingly-obvious question you’ve asked in between dealing with the town, the police, the location, and the producers of our show. But no, you’re right: I should’ve made sure you hadn’t run out of Oreos.

Basically, in case I haven’t been clear, what I’m saying is: GO. FUCK. YOURSELF.