Be my pants

At first, I thought it was a mistake. The Lincoln Laywer. You were good, subtle even, stealing the spotlight from then America’s sweetheart Ryan Philippe. But I soon forgot about it, I hated you, after all. Your romantic comedies, your sex symbol status even if you looked like shit, your white shirts and too white teeth (and God knows I’m obsessed with teeth). To me, you were a perfect Hollywood monster. Ugly-go-lucky, a lazy actor who makes millions by being foolish in foolish films. And, OMG, two features with Kate Hudson, OMG, she’s the worst, don’t you know that?

But then. Then 2012 happened. Then, I met you. Again.

I fell in love with you instantly. Killer Joe. I mean, the film was great but you were incredible. Gentle and vicious. An apocalyptic sadistic bastard (I guess I’ve got a soft spot for that kind of guy). I wanted more, I wanted more of your “I’m gonna rip your face and wear it as a mask”, more of your “is that your dick, Hansel?”. Then, you fulfilled my wish with The Paperboy and your more than cult “I’m your mercy, I’m your arms wide open, I’m your pants”. Of course, with your broken voice and genuine texan accent, you could read me the phone book, I’d be the happiest girl on Earth but it’s not only that. Not only a good line. It’s you. You can be whatever you want to be. A drifter, a perverted killer, a gay journalist in 60s conservative Florida. You can be everything. And you are just amazing at this everything. How come I’ve known you only for Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, so gross I couldn’t watch it even half drunk on the plane? How come I’ve never seen this side of you before? This genius side of you. This humanity. This monstruosity. This violence. This strenght. You, sir, are a terrific actor. And this voice. You know, I saw Mud only for that moment I’d already seen a thousand times in the trailer when you say “I do”, with this unique southern accent of yours.

And I love that now you don’t pretend to be a pretty boy anymore. You can’t imagine how much sexier you are as a deviant psychopath than when you try to be a playboy in any of your stupid comedies. But when I look at your filmography, I realize you did only four of those shitty rom coms. You see, with only four – when it’s really bad- it feels like a million. On the other hand, I can’t get enough of you as a vile puppet master or a crazy old stripper. In the Dallas Buyers Club, it’s not your drastic transformation everybody talks about that I liked, on the contrary, I liked that it’s still you, it’s always you. Your voice, your charisma, your presence and that sparkle in your eye, even on the verge of dying.

Like Ron in that film, you’ve come a long way and I think I love you even more because of this. Maybe it was your plan all along, maybe you just wanted to have fun or get a college fund for your kids, I don’t know. And I don’t care. I don’t want to know about your life. I just love that you made it. You’ve come back from the rom com agony and here you are. And that’s way more interesting than a perfect career à la Christian Bale, already choosing wisely at the age of 11.

You know, a few years back, seeing you in a trailer was an absolute no-go for me but now, I download legally rent your previous films and I’m excited everytime your name is on a poster. I can’t wait to see you in True Detective deploy your majestic personnality. And I can’t wait to hear your voice again.

So maybe you’ve changed. Maybe you’re not haunted by ghosts of errors past anymore. Or maybe I’ve changed and I can truly see you now. But, either way: I love you, Matthew McConaughey!

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