image: The Sartorialist
A: I don't even care what he's wearing.
M: Oh, HI.
But...I am pretty sure he's wearing a smock made out of furniture moving blankets.
A: He is, but look how his shoulders (don't quite) fill out that moving blanket!
M: I need you to think long and hard about how he puts that on. Is it a pullover? Button up the back? And whats up with the decorative buttons?
A: Oh, I'm really thinking more about him taking it off. I'll cut him out of it if that's what it requires.
M: I am sorry. I am fully distracted by this coat....thing now. And the buttons! THE BUTTONS, ADRIEN.
A: Buttons? Look at THAT FACE.
M: All I can see is this:
A: Good lord, what the hell is wrong with you? Just BLUR YOUR EYES, MARIANNE. The buttons will hit the floor after I run my scissors through his moving blanket tunic! Then later I'll wear his jaunty scarf because it smells like him.
M: I'm sorry. I am broken.
A: Shhh, I'm mentally sliding my hands up under that tunic blanket coat. Sorry, is that TMI?
Wait, one of the commenters thinks he's wearing a jacket backwards. And oh my, maybe I change my mind about him:
Oh buddy, no:
M: I was just about to send you this:
He looks incredibly wee.
A: Did we just send each other the same photo? He's a hobbit, dude.
Yes! Clearly we are sharing a brain. Except your half thought he was hotter.
I will admit that my half thought he had a nice face, but now I know he could fit in my pocket, so.
A: The tiny-ness just kills it for me. I don't need a pocket man.
M: Can we just go back to talking about this?
A: YES. Did you tell the blog your story? I think you need to.
M: Oh! Well. He lived in my neighborhood in NY. For several weeks we would run into each other in shops, street corners, everywhere. Then one afternoon I walked into a bodega, he saw me and started laughing, and I told him that he had to stop stalking me. I don't understand why we aren't married? Or didn't make out. He is dreamy and tall, unlike Paul Rudd. Who I also have a story about. But that's for another day.
A: *sigh* I can't believe you didn't marry him on the spot. ON THE SPOT. Or at least make out. I mean, come on.
M: If I could go back in time and smack myself, I would.
A: So would I, dude. I mean, you had Liev Schreiber's FULL UNDIVIDED ATTENTION. And, you made him laugh! You were IN.
M: Really why didn't I just jump up on him and squeal "WE ARE MARRRREEEEEEEED!"
A: I think the key phrase there is "jump up" because he's so tall and broad. I'm crying now.
M: I am crying harder.
A: I'm telling.
M: We were meant to be.
A: I'm telling YOUR HUSBAND.
M: He will be like, "DUH. I'd hit that."*
*no, he would not.
*because then I would tell Kenny.
A: I'M NOT TELLING.
M: I'm glad we can agree to not tell our husbands about our pretend affairs with a celebrity.
A: I'm pretty sure mine doesn't even read the blog.
M: I'm not sure mine could tell you the title with a gun to his head.
A: I'll bet Liev would read it.
M: I bet he already DOES. Sigh.
A: Igor would too.
M: Of course he is named Igor. I need to lay down.
A: Me too.