Ryan poses with his silver medal following the men’s 200 m individual medley final.
Dear Ryan Lochte/Prime Minister of Lochte Nation,
I am hands down, without a doubt Lochte Nation’s biggest fan, and am so confident in my supreme fanaticism that I’ll even admit some seeming super-fan fallacies, like: I do not own the glasses with the mesh lenses that read “REEZY JEAH”; I also do not own all the products you endorse, including but not limited to a Nissan and swimming trunks by Speedo. However, I DIYed my own perforated “LOCHTENATOR” shades out of a mason jar and jegging trimmings left over from BuzzFeed’s ultimate DIY jorts contest, and I wear them constantly — to sleep, Tweet, type, work out, watch you on TV, swim, shower, and text. (I put a rubberband on the glasses arms so that they don’t fall off when you excite me at work and I burst out of my desk chair to scream “REEZYYYY!!!” and throw green glitter around.) Another sign of my terrifyingly strong affection for Lochte Nation are the green Swarovski crystals I have glued on all of my possessions, including but not limited to: my Beyoncé poster and Blue Ivy doll, my nails, my cat’s nails, my teeth, the laptop BuzzFeed lets me write things like this from, and ALL of my shoes (which should go without saying, really).
You have also inspired me to be as much like you as possible. For example, I think about practicing swimming laps — which is certainly what you spend most of your time doing — basically all the time. I am also training myself to become less grate at spelling because it’s SO adorable when you do it, and I am SERIOUSLY dialing back on the number of facial expressions in my emotional repertoire and perfecting the one where my eyes go just a little bit lazy and my lower jaw hangs limply from my upper jaw, like I’m stoned and waiting for someone to feed me a slice of pizza.
Lastly, I have been told by a real British person that the Brits don’t know who you are and don’t care about your flawless, extraordinarily charming existence. To remedy this gut-wrenching humanitarian crisis, I have already begun planning a street art campaign to get your face plastered on the sides of buildings across the U.K. that will make Banksy look like last season’s harem pants and the cat artists in Arizona look like Maria Sharapova getting creamed by Serena Williams. Because I know in my heart that the best way to get the Brits (and all the other crazy people in the world who don’t know who you are) on your side is to let them see you before they let them hear you.
Also, though you (or whoever reads this aloud to you) may feel afraid to be in the presence of someone as rabidly N 2 U as me, know that it will be cool — I won’t touch you unless you initiate contact for some good Facebook pix, but I also won’t be like that person on a date who’s so shy they can’t think of anything to say and force you to make all the painfully awkward conversation. In fact, you won’t have to speak at all because I’ll bring a swatch of sparkly green tape to put over your mouth.
ALL KISSES NO HISSES!!!
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