I can't even get started without being distracted by this perfection. What am I supposed to feel right now, Johnny? Other than extremely jealous of every human you might ever adore enough to touch? Jesus. MY TYPE is perfectly represented here. Take note. Because he has no intention of conforming AT ALL.
Anyway, I am not into the Olympics or Olympics-adjacent sport. But my mom and dad are definitely fans. I only know of Johnny's existence because sometimes when I visit my parents for dinner, they have some figure skating competition playing on the TV and almost every time, there's Tara Lipinski and Johnny Weir glamming it up as they deliver their fabulous commentary on whoever is going for gold that day. Now, after my parents get a glass of wine or a cocktail in me, I am definitely then TOTALLY INTO the figure skating. I'm literally "ooohh" and "aahhhh" and "Oh shit they fell!" the entire time and then my emotional involvement immediately stops when I go home.
But for some damned reason, just last weekend, I realized I had never actually seen Johnny Weir skate before and mom and dad had to show me some shit on Youtube.
That was it. I was done. After about 30 seconds witnessing his sassy ass sashaying across the ice in the most creative Swarovski-encrusted costumes, my heart was bursting with glittery rainbows. My smile hurt. I stomped the floor. I slapped my knees. I squeed. It was the most PURE thing I had seen in a long while. It was so delightful that we watched a dozen more videos and half of them involved Lady Gaga songs. But the BEST was when he was dressed as a blue icicle and skated to Lara's Theme from Doctor Zhivago. That cemented my feels.
This is just too much. I am rendered powerless. I love every inch of him. From the top of his shiny raven pompadour to the bottoms of his Christian Louboutin skates (exclusively made for him!). This secret lovespawn of Tom Hiddleston and Alan Cumming simply cannot be more awesome. His grin gives me hope, his hair gives me courage, and his daring fashion gives me inspiration. He gives me LIFE itself. His Instagram account is one endless stream of SPARK JOY.
YASSSS he gives us 1000% of our Suggested Daily Consumption of spangles and facepaint. Thank you, Johnny.
FEATHERS and nips. Totally acceptable.
Martha Graham skirt action FTW.
OK, back on track. No, never mind. Here's some more:
SIGNATURE MOVE! MUCH CHEEKINESS. MANY HEARTS BROKEN.
HNG.
Sorry/Not Sorry. I had a long week and Johnny Weir clips are my cat videos. They wrap my heart in shocking pink feather boas. Just remember that Johnny was being this outlandishly homosexual back in the mid oughts. That took some seriously sequined cahones. He may not be an actual Olympic Medalist (he's a three-time US champion!), or pretty much anyone's cup of tea. But he's my hero. I want to be him on another timeline/dimension. Whenever I feel low, I just stare at some Johnny Weir gifs.
You are an angel of happiness!
Loving the announcer bling, my dear.
Don't stop being you, Johnny. I will not accept any more skating without Johnny Weir commenting. Much like how nature documentaries without David Attenborough are rubbish. Johnny is essential. Johnny is what makes it all worthwhile. God keep and protect Johnny Weir. Well, at least Tara will watch over him for me ;)
