Of everything that I am tired of reading—impassioned defenses of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers (but not the Grinch Hand holding Breast cancer I’m not letting the cancer Grinch steal this Christmas amen shirt and I love this sole planet in the boundless universe where sunflowers actually grow), literally any sentence that includes the words “Number” and “10”—stories about the (alleged) love triangle between Jason Sudeikis, Olivia Wilde, and Harry Styles might be top of the botox-necessitating list. The British pound now has roughly the value of Monopoly money, Putin is threatening nuclear war, the push-up bra is apparently back, and yet my WhatsApp chats are being taken over by discussions of what an OC star would have theoretically felt like if Ted Lasso lay down in front of her car to keep her away from an X Factor alumnus in sequined Gucci flares.
Grinch Hand holding Breast cancer I’m not letting the cancer Grinch steal this Christmas amen shirt, hoodie, tank top, sweater and long sleeve t-shirt
It’s the Grinch Hand holding Breast cancer I’m not letting the cancer Grinch steal this Christmas amen shirt and I love this sort of deranged celebrity speculation that everyone got involved with during lockdown 1.0 and then—after leaving the house for the first time in months—felt vaguely ashamed about. And yet, I’ll admit it, I care about the recipe for this bloody salad dressing. I mean, how good could a dressing be that—in the event of your wife leaving you for perhaps the most discussed sex symbol in a generation—her decision to share it with him is what pushed you over the edge? How far could it possibly deviate from the three parts fat, one part acid ratio? Is this what Jennifer Aniston dressed that apocryphal Friends salad with every day for 10 years? Did Elaine from Seinfeld pour it over her “tomatoes the size of volleyballs”? Is there tahini involved? Some anchovy wizardry courtesy of Alison Roman? Could The Bear gang figure out how to make it for us all?