There is only one Amy, Tina, and Britney in my life. That much I know. It’s easy to keep those ones straight and love them unconditionally.
But for the rest of my list of lady loves, things tend to seem redundant. By that, I mean they’re literally all Jennifers or Emmas.
Ladies, just know that I love you each individually, for reasons special to you and me. Don’t let the envy consume you, there’s plenty Sharon to go ’round. I know this probably keeps you up at night, wondering which Jennifer or Emma I adore most, and you blank out during your award speeches forgetting to thank me – but I forgive you, because that’s what real life friends do.
Onward. First, the Jennifers.
Obviously. My BFF also goes by Miri, if you didn’t know. Which you don’t, because you aren’t us. I can’t wait for more Catching Fire trailers to come out and see “Academy Award Winner” in front of Jen’s name. I will shit a gold brick and cry glitter.
Years ago, I watched Jen on a late night show and she brought pictures from her high school band days. I was totally in band, too, Jen. AND I ALSO PLAYED THE ALTO SAX – WHAT??! She’s married to a great Bostonian, Ben Affleck, and I’m gearing up to marry my own Bostonian, Mike Tomasik. Both of their last names end in “k”. So really, Jen and I go way back.
The ridiculous love I feel for Jen Aniston is unmoving. I will defend her against anything. Go ahead, try me. COME AT ME, BRUH. She’s an old friend, or an older sister, or that really amazing young aunt you’ve always wanted. Whatever it may be, I love her as my own.
The actual weird fucking aunt I’ve always wanted. The one who gives life to holidays because you only go to those family parties to see her, how much she’ll drink, and all the crazy things that come out of her mouth. I just…I want to know her sooooo badly.
If I could have an older sister, I would really, really want it to be Jen. My high school experience would probably have been way better if Jen was there to tell me bitches ain’t shit. Even now, she would keep me in line and give me advice on clothes and food. Jen, sing me a song as I sit on your lap – mkay?
And now, the Emmas.
My reflection. I’m pretty sure we must have shared a fetus somewhere in the past. Perhaps I was 3 years premature, or she was just 3 years late. Regardless, we probably share some DNA because our teeth are the exact same. ISWEARTOGOD. Plus, our voices mushed together make a normal pitched voice, with her baritone and my high-pitched, 4-year old tone. Peas in a fucking pod.
Total. Girl crush. I want her to have all the success in the world because I want to be able to stare at her perfect face forever. I fully understand how creepy that sounds, but it’s also the truth. She’s just so goddamn pretty. Plus, she’s well spoken – duh, British. She’s pleasing to the eyes and ears. I’m just really grateful she’s living in this world. Period.
She could be my British mother if she wants. I have no qualms about it. See? I’m already using better language just from the thought. Doesn’t she seem like the kind of woman you’d love to go out and have a drink with? I want to get her good and drunk and tell me British stories. Emma Watson can be there to moderate, since they’re Potter pals.
DAMN STRAIGHT. She’s literally only on here because Jen Aniston sort of gave birth to her, and now the name Emma will always have a connection to Friends. So jealous.
I cheated, fuck off. Close enough, though, right? Besides, this gorgeous woman deserves more attention in the world. She can be this beautiful songstress, and then flip the switch and be a badass on Shameless. She’s my style icon and I want to rip her hair off and sew it onto my head.