Glenderful's Shit List: Colin Farrell

Sometimes you pour years of your soul, your unhinged energy, your whole aesthetic into manifesting someone into your orbit—and then, poof, you blink and realize they’ve been serving there the whole time. Walked into the cinema, ready to hyperfixate on every vibey detail of A Big Bold Beautiful Journey, and BOOM—Colin Farrell. Like, the universe just hit me with a cosmic slay. ‘Cause Colin? He’s not new to this, he’s true to this. Been the ultimate zaddy on my GOAT list since forever, lowkey glowing in my brain like a comfort obsession I’m never quitting. This ain’t a new stan moment—this is the universe sliding into my DMs, reminding me my OG king is still that guy.

Colin’s not some TikTok thirst trap or a trending hashtag. He’s a legacy fantasy, the blueprint for heart-eyes energy. Manifestation isn’t about instant gratification—it’s about divine timing, bestie. So I’m not toning down my delulu; I’m turning it all the way up. Colin’s not just a fleeting vibe—he’s Glenderful’s royalty, and if you know, you know. The real shit for all my fellow manifesters? Your wildest cravings don’t always drop on your timeline, but don’t you dare dim that glow or yeet your hope!

Flashback to Ben & Jerry’s Dublin Mudslide—the iconic frozen slay, discontinued like a situationship you’re still not over. Irish cream, molten fudge, chocolate cookies, swirling in my mouth ‘til I’m gagged. But let’s keep it 100: the fantasy hittin’ me isn’t just about ice cream, babe. It’s Colin Farrell—his raw, messy, untouchable energy, sparking cravings for that earthy, next-level taste. If Ben & Jerry’s slapped “Eat Colin Down to the Core” on that pint, it’d still be flying off shelves, feeding our feral hungers ‘til we get the real deal. If Colin ever offered me his private mudslide, I’d call it the universe’s ultimate flex.

Let’s break it down, no filter: that Irish accent? Weaponized ASMR. Rugged looks, smolder on lock, and a vibe that flips from sad-boi poet to dark, chaotic sex god. He’s unpredictable—one minute he’s breaking your heart in A Home at the End of the World (real talk, he outdid Michael Cunningham’s novel, and that’s a serve), the next he’s dropping witty, villainous bars in In Bruges. Don’t sleep on Phone Booth (pure intensity) or that bleach-blond lewk in Alexander. I’m already hyped for Netflix’s upcoming Ballad of a Small Player ‘cause I’m a Lawrence Osborne stan, periodt. And if you think bad press or drama could fade Colin, catch this reality check: that 2003 sex tape? Iconic. Sweaty, tatted, nine inches of pure Irish energy—a grainy masterpiece more Oscar-worthy than half his IMDB, dripping with unfiltered, animalistic charisma. Colin Farrell isn’t just a name; he’s a myth walking among us, surviving the 2000s tabloid chaos and coming out hotter, sharper, and straight-up legendary.

So nah, I’m not “adding” Colin to my Shit List. The list was born because of Colin. Colin, you can skip the toilet paper—inflation’s wild, but I’m locked and loaded with bidet energy when you finally slide my way. ‘Til then, I’m keeping the GOAT list lit—craving that Irish cream, a Dublin Mudslide vibe, and a whole lotta Colin Farrell. That’s how you keep the journey bold, beautiful, and absolutely unforgettable.