Nine.

I mean, I could guess what this movie’s about, but I’m going to be honest:

I.

DO.

NOT.

CARE.

It could be about that time your mom bought limes when the baked salmon recipe called for lemons, I’m still going to see it. Opening night. In a fucking ball gown.  Carried into the theatre by four swarthy buff shirtless men wearing bowties. Eating grapes with a gold-plated miniature knife and fork.

I’m going to love this movie even though (because?)  it looks like one looooong dreamy designer image (I’m waiting for Nicole to yell “I’m a dancer… I love to dance!“). I want to live in you, Nine! I’m younger than everyone in that movie and it still makes me yearn for my fabulous metropolitan jet-setting youth. Ah, Paris in the 50s! Was there a better time?!?