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We Need To Talk About Ryan Gosling At A Parking Meter

I'm shivering (in pleasure).

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*The setting*

We are on a street in Southern California. There are crystal shops, dozens of people randomly complaining about why they left New York City, and Panera-style restaurants where you order at a counter and they give you a number and then they bring you your food. I love those places.

An older gentleman with a blurry face walks away as a man, Ryan Marie Gosling,* gears up to pay for his parking. A true man of the law, a man of my heart, a man who could drive into me any day.


*Marie is not actually his middle name but I think it's cute and fitting.

Ryan stops for a moment and stares into the busy California street (traffic sucks there). He uses his brain, pouts a bit, and calculates. It's the math in his head. How long will he need to be here for? How long must he stay? The blurry old man is still there.


Ryan begins to walk away. He delicately places his hand into his pocket. He raises his eyebrow, turns his torso, and gives a confused look. This dirty sidewalk is your runway, the parking meter your muse. This is a well-choreographed show, sweeties. Enjoy it.