There is something innately terrifying about Jonathan Rhys Meyers’ eye balls. I fear that if you were to stare into them for too long, your souls face will be beheaded, EMOTIONALLY. Fuck, even I don’t know what that means. I’ve been stuck in a Tudors k-hole for far too long. It is my Great Matter. All I want to do is run around the neighborhood in pantaloons then spend my downtime nuzzled up to Jonathans’ clavicles like a coked up Anne Boleyn. A girl can dream.

[G]