My friends, today I stumbled across a nugget of extremely distressing gossip. The New York Post surmises, from a collection of photographs, that model and Swifty Squad member Cara Delevingne abandoned her lover Annie Clark—otherwise known as ethereal songstress St. Vincent—at Monday’s Chanel show in Paris, departing instead with fellow model Kendall Jenner. I have since been afflicted with visions of romantic cataclysm, of a Cara and Annie torn asunder.
I cannot bear it. My tranquility depends on consistent reassurance that this romance flourishes and endures until death do they part. Don’t let me down, Cara. Do NOT fucking let me down.
You demand an explanation, I suppose — some thread of logic that coheres this obsession. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you. I’m fond of St. Vincent as a musician and, from what I can gather, as a human, too. Cara Delevingne possesses one of the most fascinating visages I’ve ever seen, with its extraordinary flexibility of expression and its innocent sternness. She seems wild and weird, the sort of woman with whom I want to drink wine on a street corner after dancing all night. So, why not place my emotional eggs into the Cara/Annie love basket? They both seem chill enough to me.
I’m comfortable staking my claim on such limited information; in fact, I prefer it. The less I know, the more I can freely imagine without pesky facts killing my joy. You can try to tell me that Annie does not sing “Strange Mercy” to Cara as she falls asleep, but hell if I’ll believe you. Just look at this shot Cara posted of her lady mid-performance:
Fan Numero Uno, am I right?
Let me also direct your attention to this perfect snuggle:
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