Keanu Reeves is forty seven. FORTY FUCKING SEVEN. That’s hard to comprehend, isn’t it??!?!?!?!?!? As a teenager, I loved him so much I even had a special wall dedicated to him in my bedroom with pictures from The Face and Sky magazine and even Smash Hits plastered all over it. Once, I watched Cronenberg’s remake of The Fly and I was so shit-scared I slept with a picture of Keanu next to my pillow in case I woke up in a terror *wishes could erase half of life*. Anywaaaaaaaay, Keanu is a precious flower, has suffered some recent tragedy, and clearly has some sort of Dorian Gray-esque portrait in the attic that prevents him from aging in any capacity. Let’s look after him.
(This post is dedicated to Lizzie Bonito, y’all – a very funny lady with a huge talent for recognising unbelievable hotness when she sees it xx)