Maybe more like a half-million medium-sized ones, in the spirit of springtime, or of pink-yellow-blue flower buds, or of the jillions of ice crystals and snowflakes that have us/me locked into this forever-April torment. Let’s do a million little ones...
Let’s do a million little ones—maybe more like a half-million medium-sized ones—in the spirit of springtime, or of pink-yellow-blue flower buds, or of the jillions of ice crystals and snowflakes that have us/me locked into this forever-April torment. Let’s do a million little ones just because.
TYPES OF OBSESHES, A TAXONOMY
A hungry tiger is an amazing Paris Hilton-originating thing to call those socialite-starfuckers who want some of that second-hand drippy-pussy heat for themselves (and probably an allusion, accidental or otherwise, to the Oz book The Hungry Tiger, but, like, has Paris Hilton read a book? Has Paris Hilton owned a book? Like, was Paris Hilton real-real, or from the Oz books, too?).
Anyway, she called the third-tier try-too-hards who stood really close to her at Vegas parties or W/E "hungry tigers" in her good/bad (who am I kidding: GREAT/AWFUL) Oxygen show, and that phrasing and her baby-pink Bentley were both very rewindable.
So to honor Paris, let’s call girls who have appetites for their own desires something fun, too. Daisys, like Buchanan? Yes. Obviously this is extra topical; have you seen the newest, realest trailer for the already-divisive 3D versh of The Great Gatsby yet? (ALSO: let’s just quickly review that while Gatsby’s appetite is all-time, it is singular, and it is Daisy’s appetite that is split into pieces and parts, which touch and press up on and break each other. Daisy, in the end, wants more.) It’s a very good trailer.
Aaaaand, since we’re doing this, how about Ozmas are those girls who are all about cooling everyone out and making everyone happy before doing or getting what they want for themselves, named after the basically communist diamond-eyed fairy princess, also from the Oz books? Cool. So here at Obseshes, and especially today, we are Daisys, just guzzling loves and likes and wants and needs like… you know what that’s like.
This is an obsession question for you to answer: Aside from fashion, sex, transportation, and the gym, is your body in use for any reason? Is it expressive and creative and participatory outside of basic function? Maybe here is what I’m really asking: When you walk by a low rail, if you have sneakers on (liiiiiike, maybe the most fun pair of Dunks you’ve been in for years and years? Right now, I have my new Tokyo Sky Highs on my kitchen island so I can look at and talk to them sometimes, maybe give them a little pet-pet, since I can’t have even a goldfish and feel OK about it)… wait.
OK, so, if you have sneakers on, right, do you jump on the rail? Does your body respond kinetically to your environment in this way? Most of you are in the demographic sweet spot of post-teen/pre-real-adult-ness, which was concluded following a yearlong, grant-funded Pew study of my inbox and Twitter replies, and which indicates that you haven’t signed over your legs and torsos and their interactions to Ursula the Sea Witch in return for too much off-brand vodka and too many weekend sleep-ins. Sooooo tell me what you do, faced with that low rail, like what your body wants to do to it. Because maybe the primary, or only actual and truly feeble worry of my current adult life, is that every movement and machination of my body is pre-ordained and useful to an end of something—good, fun, wantable somethings—but rarely ever interacting with the world independent of my conscious input, just on its own, chaotically. I feel like if cold steel of a low rail touched my bare leg I would be cut and bleeding something like, I dunno, antifreeze there, as if it was broken glass, and I was not a human girl. I feel like I am so tired of street-level dudes looking, not just at me but at my girl-peoples more generally, that I just zip up higher and higher and higher until I’m getting Starbucks in a sleeping bag. I feel like I might never reverse the profound shame I carry around for being all irritated and “Dooooon’t!” at a friend who was climbing a tree in some rando’s yard one time. There’s a lot you can do to ensure that your mind and words and choices and behaviors and relationships stay loose, stay true, stay chaos, but when you start to guard your body it’s like closing the first of a lot of doors. So yeah email me?
Charlie, Marnie’s whipping-boyfriend cum Silicon-Alley app developer (ALSO, HALLO, HE WAS HOT THE WHOLE TIME) will no longer be on HBO’s Girls. The details are that the actor who plays Charlie, Christopher Abbott (that is a Winnie the Pooh name) left the show, and the maybe-details are that he scrapped with Lena Dunham. To me, Charlie was an important character and would have been even more important on the third season, as the surely temporary salve to Marnie’s life-spins, who would eventually have to slink away from her, because, TWIST, at a certain point when you are a Historical Bitch and have been interesting as such to a particular guy, but then he evolves upward in his life just as you evolve downward, and inevitably more toward him like you’re spinning your black tornado in the direction of his weird balsa-wood apartment, he starts to not like you. That is just science. Anyway, that would have been like palliative care for my own confusions about why the ex-boyfriend who loved me the most is currently the least interested in ever talking to me ever ever ever.
HBO-wise, this is tonight! Attention to whoever at VICE sent me the invite to the press screening in New York last night: next time, please also send me a round-trip Porter Airlines ticket, a small bag of nonsour gummy candy and a stack of hot-slick trash magazines? Thanks thanks thanks.
My video obsession has been the trio of Prada Candy L’Eau ads by Wes Anderson and Roman Coppola, who you will remember from refusing to watch CQ on your laptop in bed with a French guy one time and being correct. This particular obsesh mostly pertains to the first clip, and mostly because of the final, crucial seconds where Léa Seydoux is sitting in a movie theater between two French (theme!) raggedy dudes and just munchin’ and munchin’ and munchin’ on some gonzo handfuls of popcorn. With the exception of her baby bangs, which are THE WORST, it is a paradise YouTube moment, non? (I’m also going to permit that the Euro aesthetic of dustily muted pastels is, on its own, always compelling, too, like Mini-Eggs shells were ground into the film.)
Previously - Everyone's All About It
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