This is why we firmly reject the inclusion of AI actress Tilly Norwood in any of our foot galleries: Recent Pics, Feet of the Day, or the Special Interest Hand Section (check it out!). The administrators of wikiFeet, a group of men who refer to ourselves as the “Dukes of wikiFeet,” pledge to stomp out any generative little piggies whenever they appear. Additionally, we’ve enlisted the help of our “Guild”: another group of men who not only feel comfortable giving out an email to make an account on this website but also review women’s feet like they’re looking at vacuum cleaners on assignment from Good Housekeeping.

Initially, this policy originated from worry about the hallucinations that generative AI is prone to. Sometimes Tilly Norwood’s feet have six toes, sometimes four. Site rules require a consistent number of toes.

Beyond that, this policy is the result of a lifetime of unhealthy reflections on the nature of feet.

When you’re gazing at feet all day at work when you should be working—as we do—you learn something. You learn to value what women’s feet have to say. Rather than being prompted, real feet are earned and a product of a rich life’s circumstances—whether they be flat, weathered feet from walking the path of adversity or the delicate, vaulted arches of privilege. A hammer toe, a bunion, or a high instep. These tell stories and evoke feelings. Generative feet have no danger or vulnerability, like open-toed shoes at a construction site. None of the wild abandon. Put simply, they can’t replace real feet because they aren’t real feet.

Furthermore, we see AI for what it truly is: a play by Capital to cut Labor off at the knees. And no one knows more than us that below the knees of Labor, past its calves and ankles, lies our first love: its feet.

There are those who suggest that we get with the times or be caught on the back foot by the technological frontier. However, not only do we pledge to continue to be the stewards of the future of feet pics, we also call on our site submitters to upload only ethical non-consensual human foot content. Navigating what lies ahead with AI will require many things from all of us: we will need your hearts, your voices, and most of all your feet—well lit and in focus, please.

Anyway, I bet when you saw the meeting invite I sent over you were like… what the heck, haha.

Plus, in the 16-person conference room?! You probably thought you were walking into an emergency board meeting!

Nope, just me. All the smaller rooms were booked anyway. I need to come clean. Ashley, I actually didn’t invite you here to discuss edits to the pitch deck like the meeting invite said. I want to give you a whole new pitch. Sorry, just let me clear my throat. Buttercream frosting gives me acid reflux.

Okay… here I go!

It’s not in every position I meet a customer success coordinator like you. These last three fiscal quarters have been some of the most incredible, high-yield investment cycles of my portfolio. I can’t help but think back to our first interaction together.

Do you remember that? It was my first day. The regional manager was introducing me to everyone. When we got to your desk, before even saying, “Nice to meet ya,” I pointed out how big of a cup you were drinking out of. Without missing a beat, you swung your custom ergonomic chair around, removed your blue blockers, and said, “You should see my wine glass!” That was pure class.

Ashley, when I work with you, I feel like I’m on a never-ending Personal Improvement Plan. If management held me accountable to a SMART goal, I think it would go something like this: by the end of this fiscal year, I will schedule a bajillion weekly check-ins to track the progress of those famous peanut butter balls you keep telling us about.

I don’t even care if Shelby has an allergy. Maybe she can use that EpiPen of hers to write a damn email for once. And the riffing we get up to in our Slack, #itsalwaysapizzapartyneveraraise. Like, how do you come up with stuff like that? Absolutely legendary. Must be all that Real Time with Bill Maher and Gutfeld! you watch that keeps you so sharp.

I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you on a personal level, too. When you used radical honesty during the Safe Spaces, Brave Voices breakout session at this year’s employee retreat, I had no idea your vaccine side effects were that bad. I totally understand your skepticism now.

You may think this is coming out of left field, but I know these feelings are mutual. My suspicions were confirmed at our last happy hour. We both went for the last mac and cheese bite, but I asked, “Don’t you have ten more days in your dairy-free trial period to rule out lactose as a contributor to your stomach issues?” You gave me a firm, playful slap. The contact of your skin on my quarter-zip sent a jolt through my entire body. I called IT to give me a remote reboot!

Maybe it was the tall beer you goaded me into ordering or the Jimmy Buffett cover band that was changing my attitude and latitude. Either way—in that moment—I knew I wanted to work wifey you up.

Just a little bit ago I got off the phone with your husband. I got his number from your emergency contact form in Sharepoint. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the proposition. It kind of seemed like he didn’t even know who I was! I mean I talked about you all the time with my wife, even before the divorce. I felt it was my duty to ask his permission regardless of his answer, which was undetermined because I hung up before getting one.

So, Ashley, will you be my work wife? In sick days and in wellness days, in times of unlimited PTO and in times of unpaid administrative leave?

Ashley, you have to answer quickly. I’m pretty sure your husband called the police, and HR has likely been tipped off. In fact, I can hear the pitter patter of dress sneakers and standard-issue police boots coming down the hallway.

You need some time to think about it? Would EOD be a feasible ask for an answer? Awesome awesome awesome. Well, hey, I gotta jet. My phone is in about 30 pieces in the men’s bathroom trash, so don’t text me. I’ll keep my eyes open for an answer. Get creative!

Man, they make these windows hard to open, but it’s all good. Google AI definitively said humans can survive falls of 60 feet. This can’t be more than 52.

Ashley, consider me out of office.

Anyway, I just want to apologize for asking to substitute oat milk in my honeysuckle-boysenberry latte. I see now that you weren’t just reacting as a barista. You were reacting as an artist, and I disrupted your canvas. I didn’t understand that by requesting oat milk I was destabilizing the drink’s molecular structure, threatening to curdle not just dairy but the very social contract of our interaction.

I appreciate you doing the emotional labor of educating me that my oat milk request forced you to deviate from the sacred emulsification ratio that you learned during a three-day latte symposium in Copenhagen. I now know that when you pulled that shot, you were thinking about mouthfeel and terroir of my coffee experience.

But please understand: I only asked for oat milk because I am weak. I am not strong enough to endure the consequences of lactose. I now understand that because of my deficiencies, I don’t deserve to drink a latte.

But more importantly, I am not strong enough to endure life without caffeine.

Now that I’ve apologized, I hope you will reconsider my lifetime ban at Third Place Provisions and Coffee Collective. You see, it’s the only coffee shop within a mile radius and my Nespresso machine broke last week—not that a Nespresso machine in any way matches your artistry, of course. I understand that what you do there is less “making coffee” and more “guiding a bean through its final spiritual transformation via controlled infusion.” I respect that. I have always respected that, even during the unfortunate latte incident.

But the fact of the matter is that I need my coffee. Not in a cute Etsy “Don’t Talk to Me Until I’ve Had My Coffee” novelty mug way. Yesterday, my dentist told me to open wide, and I said “you too.” I was Instagram stalking a high school friend’s cousin and accidentally liked a photo from 2014. I have started to greet my coworkers with, “What if we all just lay down?”

I have attempted alternatives. I drank tea. I even briefly considered chicory. Yesterday, in a moment I’m not proud of, I shotgunned three lukewarm Red Bulls I found in my trunk and then immediately had a panic attack on the floor. This is not sustainable.

I am not asking to be fully restored to my former standing (though I would accept it). I would welcome a probationary period—a watch list or a chaperoned pour-over, maybe? If you cannot lift the ban, I ask only that you let me stand outside the shop between the hours of 7:00 and 9:00 A.M., just within earshot of the grinder. I will close my eyes and let the sound of beans being pulverized sustain me. If you could occasionally crack the door to release a small plume of espresso-scented air, I believe I could survive on that alone.

It’s up to us to be agents for change. The painting is on the wall.

We will not shoulder the full responsibility of domestic chores. We are more than just cavewives.

We will not give in to primitive ideas of femininity and will refuse to underline our eyes with charcoal or dab our lips with ochre, just to please our mates.

We will not be brutesplained to and will demand respect for our knowledge of medicinal plants.

We will insist on patience and understanding during menopause and will embrace the changes that are happening to our 31-year-old bodies.

We will not make ourselves small but will stand all the way upright and take full credit when the rabbits we snared are the only thing on the dinner menu.

We will not shoulder the full responsibility of raising offspring. We shall insist that our men weave the babies into their hairy chests while tracking saber-toothed tigers.

We will not abide erotica and will scratch out etchings of homo sapiens females wearing hides that barely cover their mammaries.

We will fight for our right to cast rocks to determine who will rule the tribe, so we can eject savage leaders like Grok who think females cannot thrust wooly mammoths at close range.

We will not be denied access to poplar bark or yarrow or opium poppies whenever we bleed, which feels like every month.

We will stand united in female friendship and will hold monthly stone slab meetings where we’ll drink fermented berries and discuss the latest pictographs and geometric signs.

We will not be bought with straight-tusk elephant hide boots, even if they are adorned with red-footed falcon feathers.

We will not allow the men to firelight us into believing we are too emotional when our toddlers leave on their first hunts.

We will rebuke body shaming and will abolish the practice of brow ridge reductions, favoring a more natural look.

We will not consent to the use of man caves. We also crave a space of our own where we can make eagle talon necklaces and deer bone nose rings without being bothered every five minutes by our neanderlings.

We will not sit at home while our men go clubbing.

It’s time for us to look ahead, to imagine a world 400,000 years from now where females have the freedom to choose between being a stay-at-cave mom or a working cave mom.

It’s up to us to overcome stone ageism.

It’s hard to feel good about too much of anything these days. Just watch the news! It’s a constant cavalcade of negativity and bleak outlooks. And even in those rare instances when optimism is high (like when you come up with the idea to host a rewatch podcast about the USA legal drama Suits), things don’t work out as planned. I know each era has its own set of problems, but ours feel especially dire.

Have we as a society hit our breaking point? What unforeseen challenges lay ahead? Is a rewatch podcast hosted by people who were actually on the show inherently more interesting than one hosted by a fan? The answers in order: TBD, TBD, and apparently, yes—judging from the minuscule download numbers of my Suits podcast.

Every day, I’m hit with a barrage of horrible stories resulting in optimism that is in shorter and shorter supply. There’s governmental distrust on both sides of the aisle, a broken healthcare system, and two Suits cast members launching their own rewatch podcast a week after mine began. It’s almost too much for our modern brains to comprehend. Personally, I’m not wired to compete for downloads with Sidebar, hosted by Patrick J. Thomas, who played salt-of-the-earth genius Mike Ross, and Sarah Rafferty, who portrayed the loyal/intuitive Donna Paulsen.

Researchers say that this is the first time in history that new generations have a lower quality of life than those who preceded them. Economic mobility has stalled, home ownership is out of reach for many, and Rephonic.com has Sidebar ranked as the 19th most popular Apple podcast in Indonesia. And with the cancellation of Netflix’s With Love, Meghan, how long before the Duchess of Sussex throws some bespoke woven hat she tried to make on her failed show into the ring, seeking her own piece of the rewatch podcast pie? I just can’t imagine my grandfather, or his grandfather, facing this kind of uphill battle when starting their Suits rewatch podcasts.

That’s not to say that life is a constant onslaught of misery. Despite the rapidly-changing climate, there are still nice days, still sunrises and sunsets. When I take the kids to the park (between my grueling podcasting schedule), my heart is still warmed by the laughter of children who have never even heard of Sidebar. Sometimes, things still can go your way, like when you read that Patrick J. Thomas was cast in a Yellowstone spin-off and that his travel between Montana and Texas (along with an extensive press tour) will result in a hiatus from his rewatch podcast. And sometimes, a kind stranger smiles at you and leaves a 4-star review for your show, Sure Suits Me: A Suits Rewatch Podcast.

CAVE MAPS AT VISITORS CENTER, NOT IN CAVE (TURN BACK)

CAVE OPEN TO PUBLIC NIGHTLY, 8 P.M.–9 A.M.

WILDFIRE FORECAST: VERY HIGH. BUT NOT AT THE CAVE. CAVE WILL BE FIRE-FREE, AS ALWAYS.

HEAVY BAT PRESENCE AT THE CAVE TODAY. ENJOY!

ATTENTION: ESCAPED INMATES HIDING OUT IN CAVE. WILL STARVE SOON ENOUGH, NO REASON TO CANCEL YOUR CAVE VISIT.

CAUTION: CAVE DIMLY LIT. IDEAL FOR TAKING A BREAK FROM ANNOYING BRIGHT SUNLIGHT.

ALERT: CAVE-IN AT THE OLD MINE NEXT TO THE CAVE. CAVE STILL ACCESSIBLE AND STURDY.

GEYSER PATH ON LEFT. CAVE PATH ON RIGHT: SAFE DISTANCE FROM UNPREDICTABLE AND MALICIOUS GEYSER.

CAVE TEMPERATURE: 60 DEGREES, PERFECT TEMP AS ALWAYS.

CAUTION: CAVE NO MORE THAN 3 FEET HIGH IN MANY SECTIONS. PLENTY OF GOOD CRAWLING TO BE HAD.

DANGER: GEYSER COULD ERUPT FROM GROUND AT ANY MOMENT. WATER ALWAYS SCALDING. CAVE MERELY DAMP.

NOTICE: CAVE ACCOMMODATING MOVIE SHOOT TODAY FOR NEW FILM THE CHILEAN MINERS: WHAT WENT WRONG AND WHY IT WASN’T THE CAVE’S FAULT.

ATTN: DYNAMITE FOUND IN CAVE. COME GET YOURSELF A CRATE.

SEARCH AND RESCUE UNDERWAY IN CAVE: RESCUE CREW INSTRUCTED NOT TO HINDER VISITORS’ CAVE EXPERIENCES OR FACE EXPULSION.

BEHAVIORAL EXPECTATIONS IN THE CAVE: CAVE BRINGS OUT PRIMITIVE BEHAVIOR IN GUESTS. DISORDERLY CONDUCT WELCOMED.

ALL SOCIAL MEDIA SUBJECT TO REVIEW FOR ANY ANTI-CAVE BIAS / PRO-GEYSER EXTREMISTS VIEWS.

CAVE WEDDING IN PROGRESS. INQUIRE WITH CAVE PASTOR FOR FUTURE BOOKINGS.

WARNING: BEAR SIGHTED AT GEYSER. CAVE OPEN AS REFUGE TO ALL FLEEING BEAR / SCALDING GEYSER WATER.

GOLD DISCOVERED IN CAVE! CAVE JUST KEEPS ON GIVING.

WARNING: COLLAPSE OF CAVE ENTRANCE IMMINENT. LAST CHANCE TO GET IN CAVE BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!

*Why no gifts? For our fellow parents, we know how exhausting it would be to buy a new gift for some random kid every week. Think of this as our gift to you. No need to buy anything for Brayden. You certainly don’t know Brayden well enough to know that he’s longing for a Mandalorian LEGO set, and that such a gift would catapult your child into the upper echelons of Brayden’s affections and perhaps cement a lifelong friendship. That information is irrelevant due to our no gifts request.

It is popular these days to say “no gifts” on invitations. But we don’t do what everyone else is doing just because. We’re not going to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and we are certainly not going to enroll Brayden in whatever a “ninja class” is simply because his best friend Riley takes them. Why is each 30-minute class $45? Anyway, if you want to get him a gift certificate to the ninja class place, he wouldn’t kick that out of his race car bed. But seriously, no gifts are necessary.

We also say “no gifts” because it makes us sound non-materialistic, which, for the most part, we are. Unless it comes to the $75 eye cream that I, Brayden’s mom, really want—or the $1800 OLED TV Brayden’s dad is drooling over. We’re not suggesting you get us these things—the sticker prices are ridiculous. $75 for a 0.3 oz eye cream? Who are they kidding? That being said, we have set up a GoFundMe for these items and a few other things on our public Amazon Wish List. And aren’t these birthday parties really about celebrating the parents who work so hard to make Brayden’s childhood fantastic by doing stuff like putting together this Star Wars-themed birthday party despite not owning a single Star Wars LEGO set… yet?

If you don’t get us any gifts though, that’s completely cool. We don’t have room for them in our tiny apartment anyway. Especially anything PAW Patrol or PJ Masks-related. If you get him those things, know that they will be exchanged for something Brayden really wants, like a Yoto. If you aren’t familiar, it’s a portable music player that doesn’t have a screen. Why are they so expensive? Seriously can we get him a Walkman and call it a day? If any of Brayden’s grandparents want to get BrayBray the Yoto, we are cool with that. But really no one should feel obliged to get him anything. Come for the free cupcakes and coffee, stay for the engaging conversation about kindergarten enrollment! But here’s a link to that Yoto player if you want to check it out.

Okay, we know what you’re thinking: what if you don’t bring a gift and then you arrive at the party and so many other people have brought gifts that there’s an entire table filled with them and you are like “WTF? They said ‘no gifts.’ Now I look like an a-hole for being the only one to not get Brayden a gift, even though I followed the friggin instructions.” To that we would say, yes, that is a risk you take by following our clearly stated no gifts policy. If you can’t tolerate that level of social embarrassment (and if so, we completely understand) please check out the registry Brayden made for the express purpose of saving all you rule followers from ending up in the above Trauma-Rama scenario.

Truly, there is no pressure to bring anything! Unless you make so much money that you just don’t know what to do with it. We’re looking at you, Uncle Steve. We know you are sitting on Nvidia stock and three different beachfront properties. The least you could do is get Brayden a Woom bike (green, please!) or a down payment on a house that would fit more stuff so we could start accepting gifts at Brayden’s 6th birthday party.

Please RSVP by July 12th. And remember, no gifts! Except for you, Uncle Steve.

To: All Staff

Hi, people! Having a lovely time in Greece with my son. And his new wife, of course. Who knew this adventure would be such a hoot?

On our first morning, we explored the Acropolis. So majestic and inspiring. You really have to experience it in person. The birthplace of Western civilization, right? Hannah, his wife, wanted to do early check-in instead, can you believe it? She claimed to be exhausted from the overnight flight and the wedding. Is it me, or doth the lady protest too much?

After two days in the capital, I chartered a boat to take the three of us through the islands en route to Santorini, where I booked a cabana on a secluded beach. Such a charming place. We have been taking our morning coffee on the veranda and filling the days with excursions to ancient temples of Apollo, strolling along the shoreline, and candlelit dinners.

Hannah has mostly been good company, except for trying to sleep in some mornings, and occasionally—well, repeatedly, to be honest—suggesting that she and my son might want to do a few things on their own. To the point where it became necessary to remind her, gently, as to who is paying for everything.

In case you’re wondering about the wedding, it went fine. It had to be held in Baltimore, because that’s where Hannah is from, of all places. But it was fine, really. The harbor area is better than you would think.

I received lots of compliments on my gown. Thank you to everyone who helped me brainstorm that one. In the end, going with ivory was certainly the right call. Burgundy would have been far too subdued, especially for a summer wedding. And, to those concerned about the risk of a red wine spill, I am happy to report that we escaped unscathed.

The ceremony turned out to be quite touching, if I do say so myself. We had a little trouble finding a mutually-agreeable officiant, so I stepped up. As several of you know, I had to jump through hoops to get a special license to allow me to conduct the proceedings. I really didn’t mind, as Hannah and her parents seemed to have their hands more than full arranging the reception, catering, flowers, photographer, and so on. I offered to supervise all of it, to put my organizational prowess and exquisite taste to good use, but it was like pulling teeth to get them to change anything. They did meet me halfway on the entrée selections—I’ll give them that much.

Naturally, it fell to me to pull my son and Hannah off the dance floor so we could catch our flight to Athens. I don’t like flying red-eye either, but that was just the way the itinerary happened to work out. After all, I have a division to run. I can only step away from my professional responsibilities for so many days at a time. Hopefully everyone is holding it together until I return.

For your enjoyment, I am enclosing a selection of photos from the trip. My favorites are the ones of my son and me admiring the marble sculptures of the Parthenon, engaged in deep conversation on the prow of the charter boat—doesn’t he look so handsome in that white fitted shirt?—and swimming together in the Aegean at sunset. But look over the whole collection and decide for yourselves. Overall, Hannah is improving as a photographer, I have to admit.

We overnight in Paris on the way back. Surprise treat for Hannah, who has never been. I really don’t want this trip to end, as you can imagine, but of course I am looking forward to being back in the office managing all of you and guiding the team to success on our many projects, as well as supporting and cheering on my husband now that he has started chemo.

Multi-casualty incident with a partially collapsed building. We’ve got this guy, he’s unconscious. Over there, she looks bad, that’s a lot of blood. And I am not happy about the structural integrity of the building. Do we know if anyone’s still in—hey, don’t rush me. I’m not going to just shout “somebody get help” without a full assessment of the scene. We have to know what we’re dealing with.

All right, Officer. Can you move everyone back, please? A crowd like that can absorb volume. Just suck it away. Happened to me once on one of my earliest jobs. A zoo. A real dense crowd so no one could hear me.

That llama lost an eye.

Okay, so here’s the play. I’m going to rush in and kneel next to unconscious guy. One knee, all one movement. I’ll shout “somebody get help.” No, let’s make that “hey, somebody get help.” I’m going to add the “hey” because I’m worried about this guy. I’m not sure how long he’s been out.

She’s losing blood fast. She could be in real trouble. So, I want to kneel down there, right next to her. Get someone to move her bag. Then I’ll shout, “somebody get help” and—you know what? You’re right, Officer, that’s not going to be enough. That’s some good instincts. No, after I’ve shouted “somebody get help,” I’m going to stare at her for a while and look sad. Then I’ll stand up real quick, I’ll look around and then shout, “I said, can we get some help over here?” Then what I’m going to do is stare into the middle distance just a little bit after that second shout.

Officer. You have to be Johnny-on-the-spot here. I’m going to be standing up fast. Real fast. That sometimes makes me a little faint. So I need you to be ready to steady me, okay? Don’t be scared. You’ll do fine. You’re just steadying me a little, is all.

Then we got to deal with the building. It’s in bad shape. My worry is that it completely collapses before I get a chance to shout anything. What I’m going to do is rush up to it. It’ll look like I’m going to go inside, but then I’ll take a couple of steps back and I’m going to look stricken, you know? Like I’ve seen something real bad. Then, over my shoulder, “somebody get help.”

But, immediately after I’ve shouted, I’ll turn around and shout again, “We need some help over here.” And then, what I’m going to do is shout “please,” but in a really stern voice. It’ll sound like I’m almost angry. That way people know how serious this is. This is complicated, and it’s going to be tough, but—

Hey, Officer, don’t look so worried. I’m the best there is. You know, I advised Al Pacino on how to shout “somebody get help” in Heat. Before me, he was playing it tearful, you know? Sobbing, “Oh, please, please somebody get help.” I told him: “Al, I’ve got respect for you as an actor. Sea of Love is a hell of a performance.” It’s all ego with these Hollywood types. “But, Al, you’re playing this like a nervous horse. You can’t be crying. You’re forceful. You’re in charge. You are the one who is going to GET help.” He used that, and that’s why people call it the best moment of shouting “somebody get help” in the history of—

Hey, you! What the hell are you doing? You are not helping anyone, buddy. Has anyone shouted for help? No, they have not. Medical response, my ass. I don’t give a damn if you’re Doctor Phil or Doctor House or Doctor Who. This is my scene, and until I shout “somebody get help,” you are not required. This is a hell of a difficult situation here, people could die and the last thing I need is some dumbass doctors getting in my way. Get the hell outta here.

Okay, Officer, you ready? You good? Listen to me, I’ve shouted “somebody get help” thousands of times. We’re going to be fine here. Let’s do this.

During the days, actors would play capture the flag and practice archery. Sometimes, these activities would bleed into actual filming, which is why eagle-eyed viewers may be able to spot arrows flying through several key scenes. A similar explanation could be given for why in the third act of this period piece so many characters are suddenly wearing tie-dye shirts. A tie-dye mania set in near the middle of the shoot and many of those colorful designs were unable to be edited around in post-production.

Producers, stunt performers, and makeup artists would make friendship bracelets beneath the big birch tree while talking about which person on the film they liked. Were there crushes on set? You bet! Full on affairs? Seemingly! At times, the experience felt like a massive HR minefield. But after the initial wave of cast and crew walked off set, those who remained settled in for the shoot of their lives.

Sometimes we missed the real world, so we would line up at the payphone to call our agents, managers, and publicists with the spare change they’d given us when they dropped us off. Afterwards, we’d head to the dining hall for our nightly food fight. There were occasional gripes that the food being thrown didn’t align with various dietary restrictions.

As nighttime fell, we would settle into our bunkhouse for our 8 P.M. curfew. After the film’s assistant director, who also served as bunkleader, fell asleep, the girls would sneak out and smoke cigarettes and the boys would do panty raids. This might sound problematic now, but really it was just innocent hijinks.

At certain points, many of us forgot we were even making a film. The director of photography and the key grip became so enamored with the high ropes course that the director eventually had to pull them aside, only to ask why they weren’t including him in all the fun. Ditto for the production assistants and set dressers who battled so hard in a water balloon fight that their collective exhaustion forced them to take two weeks off.

When the studio heads came to the shoot, it was pretty obvious they were jealous of all the fun we were having. But after we invited them to roast weenies at the bonfire and take part in the talent show, they started to feel a bit better about their $90 million investment.

When the shoot wrapped, we cried because we knew it meant summer was over and that it was time to return to our palatial homes, expensive cars, and attractive spouses. But everyone took comfort in the fact that the friendships were going to last forever, or until one person from the film achieved a higher level of fame and stopped responding to others in the group chat.

So, to our audiences, this production was a labor of love. We hope you all enjoy this modern retelling of Sophie’s Choice. It was definitely a shoot—and a summer—that we’ll never forget.