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It's been coming on for a while, and given my thing for white boys who dance in a particular awkward-yet-fluid, looking-like-nothing-on-God's-earth way (yes, Moz and David Byrne, I'm looking at you), maybe it was inevitable even before I got the collected 'best of' REM videos on DVD for my birthday, but suddenly my heart has burst into painful, swollen, breathless love for Michael Stipe, who while I wasn't looking transformed from fairly ordinary specimen of a type to battered, seamy, archetype of a type. Mostly I only like boys to look at, but I am pondering (at somewhat inappropriate length, sometimes) whether I would make an exception for Michael Stipe's exceptional loveliness and maybe cuddle him or kiss him or something.
Behold him! Behold his baldness, his wrinkles, his somehow sad and wise expression, the preposterous length of the eyelashes and the preposterous blueness of his eyes!
Oh, Michael, how I love you, and how glad I am that I am not even slightly more of a scary fan, or you would be hearing from me (and I would be hearing from your lawyer). |
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