Ethan Hawke Go F*ck Yourself
How long does one person deserve to be hot?
I lived on the same Brooklyn street as Ethan Hawke for six years. I know what I’m talking about.
In terms of hotness, famous men have come and gone throughout my lifetime, gracing a “where are they now” piece on occasion because the universe wanted to invade my day with childhood memories of Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez. I’m not here to speak to moments, I’m here to address longevity, specifically that of one particular movie star who will not let me live. This is not about Ethan Hawke being attractive. It’s about Ethan Hawke refusing to no longer be. The situation is unchanging, as though a demonic contract was signed or a priceless potion consumed. Though, I don’t actually think this perpetual attraction arose out of a supernatural event. I think he’s just fucking hot.
To be clear, he’s not the hottest man in the world. I’m not delusional, there are Hemsworths alive. Here, I’m speaking specifically to a personal affinity for a human being for the last three decades or more and the pure audacity of one man to affect my retinas so. Ethan Hawke has made two films (or more) per year since before I got my period. The source material exists, is what I’m saying.