When I found out Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin were going their separate ways I experienced an initial wave of nausea, expelled a single tear, and poured out a bottle of Dom for the relationships of yore. Now, full disclosure: I never cared for Chris Martin. Don't get me wrong, he seems like a perfectly nice guy, and I'm sure he's a terrific dad, but he wasn't right for Gwyneth and never was. Sure, he kind of complimented her with his granola-rocker vibe because it gelled with her health-goddess vibe, but that was about it in my book. And he's in Coldplay so that is just like minus so many points.
That being said, I was naturally thinking a lot about dear Gwynny-P, but then I saw this:
and things took a turn for the worst.
If you have ever talked/hung out/worked/drank/smoked/made out/dieted/spent two weeks in an ashram in Thailand/shopped/hiked/played badminton/had a threesome with Mads Mikkelsen and Chelsea Handler/been friends with me, then you know that I love GOOP almost as much as I love myself. I admit, however, that it is difficult to differentiate my love between GOOP and Gwyneth. My love for Gwyneth is aspirational: I want to be her because I know I never will be (god that was hard to say). I comfort myself with the fact that I'm actually Charlize Theron with just a hint of Oscar Wilde. Right? Crazy, I know, but so true.
But GOOP, man,...I mean...it's GOOP.
If GOOP goes out of business I may literally die.
Make sure Gwyneth is at my funeral.