By Lucy Parry, aged 23, an appreciator of generational acting talent
ONCE again, the sensitive, intelligent, intellectual actor Timotheé Chalamet has let his audience down by continuing his relationship with trash Kylie Jenner.
They were pictured together at the Baftas last night. Him slim, soulful, capable of deep thought and stroking my hair while he reads me Joyce. Her, superficial with fake tits.
The tragedy of him falling for her in the first place is understandable. While seeming so sophisticated, with his pale skin, green eyes and slim build, he is unworldly and naive. Whereas she is a crocodile given human form.
Raised in the Kardashian pit, fighting her siblings for any scrap of fame or recognition, instincts honed to strike without hesitation, he never stood a chance. He walked by her at a Hollywood party and was in her jaws before he could blink.
But he’s been with her a while now. The delectable accent over the second E of his name must be trembling with wrongness at her vacuous lifestyle. He must know he needs to escape.
Freeing himself would, for one as intellectual as Timotheé, be trivial. All he has to do is pick up a volume by Molière or travel more than a mile from a boutique hotel and she will be powerless to follow.
Then he will be free to date someone more suitable, like Chloe Grace Moretz or Gracie Abrams, and leave Kylie to graze in her natural habitat of dimwitted baseball millionaires.
It’s for your own good, Timotheé. If someone had intervened like this when Leonardo was your age, he wouldn’t still be f**king teenage models on a yacht aged 50. I’m saving you from that dreadful fate.
