Love is wild...wild and...extemporaneous.

The dresses on Viola Davis and Kiernan Shipka are perfect. I love nearly every choice that they make on the red carpet.

Michael Shannon (who I adore but am simultaneously terrified of) gets points for stepping outside the box, but I wish that green was a little less...condensed-pea-soup-y.

Ugh, here it comes. Loads of Morgan Fairchild blue eyeshadow and pale pink highlighters in my cosmetic subscription groupings.

Yaaaaaaaaasssss!

Black eyeliner. Sunscreen. Facial wash. Constantly. I swear, at this point- they are *trying* to enrage me.

Ipsy this month- meh. I keep getting skincare, and it's the last thing I want to get as my skin is pretty sensitive and I'm very pale- so the Boo-Boo Cover-Up in medium isn't especially helpful. A Dr. Brandt mattifying lotion (not bad, just zzzzzz)...yet another Purlisse product (I get Ipsy and Birchbox, and in a few…

Jeremy Irons voicing Scar is good, but it's nothing compared to George Sanders' Shere Khan.

The absolute GLEE on her face when she delivers that line warms up my icy little heart.

Late 80s, on a waterbed in an unfinished, dank basement bedroom that smelled old sweat, wet ashtray and bong residue. The seventeen minutes of pathetic bumbling was soundtracked by Nuclear Assault, and had as much joy and pleasure as a mugging.

I still wince whenever I see tinned Vienna sausages.

I once worked in a call center while pregnant and rocking HG (Hyperemesis Gravidarum). While on a call, a customer questioned about an item being in stock- so I offered to double check. All lies, the item was indefinitely on back order, I just had to barf. So I apologized to the customer who was more than happy to…

They split when the child was a toddler.

The perfect baby became an over-indulged brat and is now smug, ill-mannered pre-adult concerned primarily with perfecting a haughty expression in photos, pointing out the faults of others as often as possible, and doing their very best to keep up the family tradition of rigid…

When I was in high school, I befriended S. She had a brilliant mind- but also? The poster child for Histrionic Personality Disorder. No doubt her horrendous parents (both were old-money, Southern snobs) helped that along.

He looks like an alien in a Dennis Quaid suit. Am I frightened? Turned on? SO CONFUSED.

Late 80s-early 90s. Shoulder pads, acid-wash denim, lurid floral print, vested and silk-shirted douchery, Hypercolor/Zubaz, flammable acetate/lame dresses, crunchy hair and gigantic fucking bows on *everything*. Nothing redeemable.

Possibly. They all live in Naples.

Another vote for The Handmaid's Tale. It's the only book that's given me nightmares.

He's attempting "The Smoulder".

There was a lip gloss in the 80s that I adored- it came in a trapezoid-shaped tiny squeeze bottle and I can't recall the name of it. It was thick and globby and perfume-y...but I couldn't stop smearing it all over my mouth.

That, and these:

It's all I can see.