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Greta Gerwig, once one of the prime doofy, pumpkin-headed, kind of wide, but passably fuckable 2000s-gone-wild happy-to-flash sixes who (before baked goods replaced curves, before “she’s obtainable” morphed into “she’s flawless”) tortured every fellow millennial unfortunate enough to be the opposite sex (plastic accusations looming) – another blue-balling boundary-free playful groper of her friends under every false pretense lending feminine wiles a further vulgar display of power kneed into whichever individual crush a girl would target in reverse (slut judo) and leave unfulfilled to sexlessly feed on attention pre-Instagram, millennial post-hippy rot ratting out anyone culturally defunct enough to fight back – yes, this bitch somehow went mainstream instead of aging gracefully as an artistic and charming mumblecorian and brought a property to life with the help of her handlers. Her handlers are us simps begging the partially-cute for a peak well past its due date, dumpster diving in them wrinkles, sucking each nipple flat till the only cheese left is the nonstop, over-promoted art these women seem to like to wangle. Only the party-goers’ bloat remains, the first circle of fire in the death of love – gen x girls grew too cool to touch and millennials gayed the world the rest of the way limp in their piteous attempts to save it. Now menopause the movie and use your popcorn bag to drill a hole in yourself because Gerwig sold herself out (speaking of gen X mishaps) to finish the self-affirming job the Spice Girls sprinkled with their puke. How the fuck did one generation turn pussy lame, slamming shut the already short time window on beauty (why waste words on a quickly-fading statue in love with itself), using irreverence to wile out until sex became invalidated. The bed’s been jumped on to death by brats who are the stars of their ovaries and everyone took turns pouring sugar where the roastie ends. It ends obesely (beneath approachably thick commie Florence Pugh (somehow goddess level, against all logic, I pathetically concur – bitchiness passes for strength)), unfolded, after a mile, to reveal art as miscarriage. Turns out the Mayans were a little more accurate than Oppenheimer with their fear of the future. What happened in 2012 was an abstract apocalypse, a bomb rather well-intended in its flop towards equality, peace keeping for the omnisciently deaf and dumb online whose voice hived its retarded honk into a big pussy crew locked in a photo booth, smothered against the casing of their supposedly subverted nemesis, the long gone and sorely missed beauty standard they used to wield without likes, the market bubble on twat affordably popped, an abomination of quality sustained in waves, the shadow of nostalgia burnt pink on cement. Christopher Nolan’s still fairly talented, though.