Brandon Scott Gorrell
You are hilarious and brilliant, but quietly so. You never feel the need to go around flaunting how hilarious and brilliant you are and you don’t understand why people do, it’s not like they get paid extra for that. You like to keep a light hand on the pulse (any pulse — literature, pop culture, web design, your girlfriend), kept at arm’s length by constant reminders that everything is in flux. If you were a drink, you and your enviable penumbra of cool would be rye whiskey.
Like a faded photograph of a blissful, carefree summer you barely remember, you are a general optimist with a tinge of melancholy. Always vaguely preoccupied, it’s not uncommon for you to get distracted by seemingly insignificant things while walking places, like busted streetlights or shaded herb gardens, then stopping to meditate on them and making yourself late. If you were a drink, you’d be an elderflower gimlet. Bittersweet.
Smart, calculating and often misunderstood, you’re like that genius stoner dude in Cabin In The Woods everyone made fun of but should have listened to all along. You see the world as the intricate system of absurdity and contradictions that it is, but unlike the rest of us ill-equipped plebes, knowing that doesn’t necessarily make you want to hide in a hole until the apocalypse. Or maybe it does, I don’t know. Also you have a complete understanding of satire, which basically translates to having a PhD in the internet world.
You have a strong, unsettling feeling that things will never be as good as they once were, and you have yet to figure out how to deal with this and also shake your ever-encroaching sense of ephemerality and loss. If you were a drink, you’d be a Shirley Temple, ordered as is before asking the bartender to pour some vodka in there, on second thought, upon taking a sip.
Laura Jayne Martin
You like to take things with a grain of carefree salt because nothing inherently matters, but that doesn’t mean we should all throw our high standards off the roof — there’s more to good humor than cat gifs and ice cream (lol get it?) If you were an article of clothing, you’d be the perfect work-to-cocktail-hour convertible blazer, made by a respected label but still probably with weird shit in the pockets, like crumpled MASH games and teabags, for example.
If aliens wanted to create a prototype of the perfect human, complete with a flawless, meticulously calculated blend of physical symmetry, intelligence, political correctness, sense of humor and grace, you would be the lucky model specimen abducted. You literally upset people because they can’t find anything wrong with you. Like I don’t even know what else to put here. Bye.
You are not a person so much as an event: a sold-out, VIP, strippers & cocaine event. You understand that your youth, relative gorgeousness and mental abilities are a fleeting package deal, and you intend to make the most of them before you wake up with forehead wrinkles and one foot in the grave. What else is there to say? The world is your oyster, and you won’t stop ‘til you’ve made a pearl necklace.
Capable, genuine and persistent, you refuse to be fake even when the situation calls for it. Though you have your moments of fierce insecurity, you are nonetheless kicking ass in all areas of life and making everyone jealous. (Not jealous in the murder way, but jealous in the want-to-emulate-your-inner-light way.) And it’s true: you shine. That glittering uterus gif making its rounds on Tumblr should probably step down.
You majored in philosophy or poli sci in college.
You are currently (thinking about) taking the necessary steps to Finally Become A Real Adult. You can make grilled cheese now and are only two grand of credit card debt away from getting your finances in order! If you were a food, you’d be potato salad. If you were a philosophical principle, you’d be Occam’s Razor. You’ll probably make a good mom someday.
Your life makes no sense and you have no idea how to go about getting it to make sense, but you still hold out flame-resistant hope that everything will eventually, somehow, probably be okay. Maybe.
You have a real (not self-proclaimed) lust for life, which is the only genuine kind. Channeling more energy than a nuclear power plant, you are the ideal candidate for elementary school teachers to bring in should they want to get their class excited about recycling or social change. Also you are either a lesbian or have tons of questions about them. If you were a drink, you’d be Ciroc Obama.
Life is meaningless and sometimes that makes you depressed, but then there are things from time to time that appear to have meaning, which you think about until they absorb you and your feet no longer touch the bottom, but then you get overwhelmed and end up more depressed than you were to begin with.
Everything is so steeped in meaning you could cry. But you won’t, because tears freeze in the winter. (Especially in Latvia.) (Where you might be for some reason.) You are a rare bird among standard issue twenty-somethings because you listen more than you talk, which gives you a Best Friend Rating of A++. If you were a drink you would be warm vodka, snug inside an ancient leather coat that smells like bitter realizations and smoke.
You have more feelings than you know what to do with or can logically identify and you probably drink too much.
For better or worse, you are never afraid to say what’s on your mind. You are collected, resilient and (probably) a principled feminist, though you secretly wish postfeminism could finally be a thing. If you were a drink, you’d be Everclear jello shots; if you were a food, you’d be lobsters that refuse to boil. I venture to guess you have no qualms about peeing in public.
You majored in economics or poli sci in college.
You are a genuinely kind and giving person, qualities that nowadays make people wonder what your problem is. You earnestly wore a LiveStrong bracelet before you realized that only beer-pong-playing bros wear them, and even then you were too evolved to care. You are also resourceful and ready for anything, be it changing your sick grandma’s bedpan or Olympic parkour. It is likely that you are an excellent wingman.
You are a frequent visitor to the dark corners of YouTube and you still can’t fully identify the reason(s?) behind that aching murmur of futility and loneliness you feel when you get out of bed every morning. If you were a food you’d be a dinnertime omelette, eaten with singular concentration and a frosty Stella in a dim living room alone on a Tuesday.
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