French boutique Colette* is currently featuring a retrospective (including links to purchase each individual item) on the many on-screen looks of The Gosling… because, I mean, of course they are.
Look, I’m not saying we shouldn’t all be in love with Ryan Gosling.
I’m just saying maybe, you know, just maybe, we don’t need to be this in love with him.
(as I post this, an extremely strange and obviously intoxicated old man wearing an Ed Hardy hoodie is making me extremely uncomfortable in a Starbucks by persistently seeking my opinion on the best personal DVD player, but also by being an extremely strange and obviously intoxicated old man wearing an Ed Hardy hoodie who won’t leave me alone in Starbucks at 4 in the afternoon. I mean, it’s okay, it’s whatever, but it’s creepy, it’s not enjoyable, and were this room a bit less crowded, I would be faced with a genuine fear of ending up in a hole in a basement watching the Jersey Shore on one of those fucking DVD players later this evening. And, it is in this moment, when faced with a situation more unpleasant than simply having to navigate a world where nothing matters more than a Canadian actor who sometimes brings his dog with him on talk shows, that I realize that the Gosling world is not such a terrible place. Unless this guy’s outfit choice is a misguided homage to the Drive scorpion jacket, in which case, fuck you, Ryan.)
*I really only know that this is even happening because I go on this website to listen to the French pop music they play there because of coolness (hah) and because of Les Jeunes de Paris. Anyway, it’s really good background music for studying, dancing, nail-painting, and internet browsing, so, like do that.
Spotted in my favorite building on campus, posted, one assumes, by some lovely little geek who I am very eager to befriend/marry.
Tilda Swinton is a lost Hogwarts professor. And my queen.
Okay, yeah, fine, Snow. I guess I’m watching the stupid SAG awards. Whatever.
- Always developing world-ending, notebook-doodling, dignity-stripping, brain-melting crushes on the gayest of the gay guys you meet.
- Caffeine addiction. Caffeine induced dance parties. Caffeine induced late night walks. Caffeine induced speed chats. Caffeine induced out-of-character sociability. Caffeine induced crashes.
- The endless complexities involved in deciding whether or not to trim your bangs.
- Really, really, really wanting the Obamas to adopt you.
- Being totally incapable of saying no when someone asks if they can bum a cigarette and taking out your subsequent rage on the entire world for the rest of the day.
- Refusing to listen to anyone who wants you to stop believing that Sirius/Remus is canon.
- Crying to the point of exhaustion and dehydration while listening to Joni Mitchell’s Blue.
- Loving to say “Cool story, bro” to real-life bros who are spewing bro nonsense at you, even if you half expect, every single time, that you’re going to get punched.
- How terrible it is that we live in the 21st century and still have to wash our hair.
- Self-induced emotional turmoil.
- Wind is the worst.
- Cake pops are the worst.
- Nature is the worst.
- Math is the worst.
- Burritos that fall apart when you try to eat them are the worst.
- Driving is the wost.
- PBR is the worst.
- People who take the seat in front of you in a not-crowded movie theater and therefore make it impossible for you to put your feet up are the worst.
- Crying over literally everything but especially relationships that have now been over for longer than they were even a thing and those videos of dogs greeting their soldier owners.
- The trials and tribulations of a lifetime of wanting desperately to be a Huxtable.
- A residual fear of any and all cool high school girls that isn’t getting any better even as you get years and years older than they are (well, three years, anyway.)
- Being fundamentally opposed to frat parties where it is social acceptable for a complete stranger to press his erection into your unsuspecting back under the guise of “dancing.”
- Really not wanting to be a manic pixie dream girl except that you kind of want to be a manic pixie dream girl.
- DVRing episode of House Hunters International at your parents’ house to watch when you’re home and sad and probably drunk and want to pretend you’re one half of a gratingly-alt couple seeking an improbably spacious yet cheap apartment in Stockholm to live in and run your photography business out of.
- Not knowing how to walk in high heels and not really wanting to learn.
- Feeling like a traitor to some team you didn’t realize you were on if you dare to admit, even to yourself, that if someone were to put a gun to your head and ask you to choose between Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, which is plausible, right, I know, that you would have an immediate answer, and that it would be Amy.
- Wanting to learn about art, but also not really wanting to learn about art because you are already pretty insufferable to speak to as it is.
- Being a helpless follower of the Five Year Old Diet. Peanut butter sandwiches and fruit snacks for everyone!
- The clawing compulsion to choose Netflix and tea over pretty much any other option that should arise.
Because I remembered that this happened and it was suddenly important to me that it be known to the world that I was at this Cumberparty long before it became the most bumping spot for everyone with a vagina and a wifi connection to hang out.
Benedict, Benedict, I like your face.
Not only your face, because, um, that name,
I like the whole Cumber-package (and THE Cumberpackage)but especially your face.
And on this, the occasion of your birthday, I compose a poem,
An effort exposing my deep affection, as I am most clearly no bard.
I remember you from Atonement, back in the day (10th grade)
I thought you made a cute rapist (is that something I can say?)
But my friends were less impressed (there are things about me this might say.)
Which is fine, because you’re mine, and I like your face.
And now you’re Sherlock, and Sherlock’s my thing (absolutely my thing.)
I’d present a photo of my third grade Halloween costume as proof
but, you know, I want to bang you, so, no.
You’re tall with a good voice and you look cute covered in nicotine patches.
Although, let’s be honest,
My Cumbersnatch would rather you just kept a smoking habit.
You took a year off of school to teach English in Tibet
Which is, like, totally cool but, something I’d never ever do (ew)
This probably says you’re a better person than me
Which is, like, fine, unsurprising, even preferable, and fine,
Like, ey don’t give those cheekbones to just anyone, right?
Benedict, you seem quite clever.
Not just ‘cause you fake solve crime, but Real Life Clever.
Big words, theater snob, reads the paper everyday clever.
We could read together in the mornings, in bed, in the rain.
(You’re English, like, fucking English, I’m melancholy, fucking whiny.)
Sex, politics, personal essays, snuggling, toast, eggs
Benedict.
And, like, it’s just so hard, you guys. Bikinis or Cumbersnatch, rubbery technicolor candy or the unfamiliar sensation of mildly placating my deep-seated sense of self-loathing. Big stuff, I know. Fucking Sophie’s Choice up in here, all day ‘err day.
“That’s fantastic!”
“Do you know you do that out loud?”
“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”
“No, it’s…fine.”
I CAN’T WITH YOU TWO. I CANNOT.
This is Portlandia Tess. So, like, basically, um, it’s been a productive day so far.
The greatest sadness here is that I would wear that outfit. I do wear that outfit.
I MIGHT ALSO WANT TO FOLLOW LUIS GUZMAN
Took one for the team with this ice cream at brunch today, because, I mean, obviously we couldn’t just finish eating and leave the dining hall while Boy Meets World was on. It was rough, sure, forcing down those spoonfuls of creamy pistachio and sugary sprinkles when I had already had a hangover-size plate of eggs and fruit, but I’m always ready to go the extra mile. Well, as long as it’s a figurative mile. I’m pretty much never willing to go an actual extra mile, unless, maybe, I’m being chased by a serial killer or there is a bathtub full of Diet Coke waiting for me at the end.
