i, and i assume much of the bort, came of age with pete & pete and harriet the spy and blossomed into jerking off to eurotrip as teens and young adults.

she's like a lower tier amanda bynes or lindsay lohan. b-celebrity hotty that's been spiraling, but much quieter because of her relative lack of celebrity.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5681767&forum_id=2#48696399)

like, is he an addict and met her in a crack house? or is he just a dirtbag cheatmo and picked her up as a bar slampig only to discover she's a former starlet?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5681767&forum_id=2#48696411)

Answering any of your other questions or providing any of their information would give out too much information on him.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5681767&forum_id=2#48696421)

It was a humid Thursday night in July when he met Michelle at The Dead Rabbit, a bar in the Financial District where overpriced cocktails came with a side of faux-Irish charm. She was 39, perched on a barstool like a fallen angel, her once-iconic curls from her days as a child star now a tangled mess framing a face still beautiful enough to stop traffic—or at least a junior associate mid-discovery. Michelle had been the darling of ’90s and early '00s film and television, a household name until the residuals dried up and the vodka took over. Now, she was a regular here, her tab a running joke among the bartenders.

“Another?” the bartender asked, sliding a martini her way.

“Make it quick,” she slurred, her voice a husky echo of the girl who’d once sung jingles for cereal ads. “I’ve got a deposition with oblivion at midnight.”

Tom, loosening his Brioni tie after a brutal day negotiating a merger for a pharma client, caught her eye. He’d taken his third 20mg Adderall of the dat at at 4 p.m. to survive a partner meeting where the managing partner had droned about “synergy” like it was a buzzword from a 1L orientation packet. He needed a release -- not the kind Eliza offered with her passive-aggressive sighs over his late nights, but something raw, something that didn’t come with a motion for reconsideration.

“Long day?” he asked, sidling up to her, his tone all velvet and privilege.

“Long life,” Michelle shot back. She sized him up—Tom, with his $500 haircut and the faint scent of Creed Aventus, was a walking stereotype of Big Law excess. “You look like you charge by the hour.”

“Only when the client’s watching,” he quipped, and that was it. The spark ignited.

Their affair started that night in a room at the Conrad Downtown, a hotel Tom billed to “client development” with the ease of a man who’d once expensed a $200 steak dinner as “office supplies.” Michelle was a revelation—wild, uninhibited, a woman who’d traded Hollywood scripts for a life scripted by Smirnoff. She liked it rough, and Tom, who’d spent years suppressing any impulse that couldn’t be cited in a brief, found himself unraveling. Handcuffs borrowed from a friend at the U.S. Attorney’s Office (a “gift” from a raid, or so the story went), a silk tie repurposed as a blindfold, a riding crop he’d jokingly bought at a firm charity auction—it escalated fast. Michelle called him “Counselor” in bed, a nod to his J.D. that made him laugh even as it turned him on. He’d whisper Latin legal maxims—res ipsa loquitur, “the thing speaks for itself”—while tying her wrists, and she’d giggle through her buzz, “Objection sustained.”

For weeks, it was a blur of late-night trysts in Manhattan pied-à-terres and stolen moments in his office after the associates had logged their billables and gone home. Michelle brought a chaotic energy Tom hadn’t known he craved—her alcoholism a messy counterpoint to his curated life. She’d show up half-drunk, mascara streaked, begging him to “punish” her, and he’d oblige, the adrenaline of control drowning out the guilt nagging at him from Larchmont. Once, she left a lipstick-smeared Post-it on his desk—“Voir dire me, Tom”—and he spent an hour paranoid that a nosy paralegal would find it before he did.

But the cracks widened. Michelle’s drinking spiraled—she’d call him at 3 a.m., slurring threats about telling Eliza, or worse, the firm’s ethics committee. “I’ll file a motion to disqualify your whole damn marriage,” she’d laugh, but her eyes were hollow. Her depression, once a shadow, became the main event, and Tom—trained to spot liability a mile away—saw the red flags. He ended it over a $22 gin and tonic at Bemelmans Bar: “This isn’t working, Michelle. I’ve got a family. Partners. You need help I can’t give.”

She didn’t cry. She just ordered another drink and muttered, “Typical lawyer. All precedent, no balls.”

Tom thought that was the end of it. He went back to Larchmont, kissed Eliza on the forehead, and buried himself in a 10-K review to forget the scent of Michelle’s perfume. But Michelle didn’t forget. She drank harder, spiraled deeper. Six months later, on a bleak February morning in 2025, Tom opened the New York Times on his Metro North and froze. “Former Child Star Michelle Trachtenberg Dead at 39: Liver Failure Claims Troubled Actress.” It was national news—TMZ, CNN, even a somber NPR segment. The articles painted her as a cautionary tale, a Hollywood cliché, but Tom knew the subtext. He’d been a footnote in her descent, a privileged bastard who’d tied her up and walked away.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5681767&forum_id=2#48696790)