Glenderful's Shit List: Dane Little

Everyone complains about the algorithm like it’s a toxic situationship that still watches your Stories. Babe, please. When you manifest, the universe delivers—right into your fyp. And what did my curated reality serve me? Men. Hawai‘i. Aesthetic blooms. And wrapped in that divine, algorithm-approved package: Dane Little.

Let’s break him down. Dane’s a Niche Models boy from Honolulu. 6’1”. A chest like a walking granite countertop. A 32-inch waist that lives in your mind rent-free. Brown-on-brown eyes and hair that scream warm, dangerous, and somehow still approachable. His portfolio is a whole mood: Maui Divers Jewelry, Crazy Shirts, those high-gloss tourist-luxury campaigns where the sand is photoshopped to look like sugar and the sky is in a permanent state of golden hour. He’s the guy leaning against a palm tree, a lei draped low on his collarbones, the sunset hitting his cheekbones like a filter IRL. He’s the beachside resort fantasy, the athletic-but-scrubbed-clean island boy transformed into a walking, breathing Pinterest board.

But the plot twist? The man has lore. The Littles aren't just a local family—they are Little Plumeria Farms. His grandfather Jim built the empire; his dad Clark is a local legend who shoots surf; and Dane? He’s the next branch on this fine, intoxicating family tree. They literally have a flower named after him—the “JL Dane.” So he’s not just wearing the lei, he is the lei. His Instagram is a Sephora scent profile: creamy white, raspberry-pink, and blood-orange blooms, each one a mix of jasmine, citrus, and vanilla that you just know clings to his skin. You’re doomscrolling, your thumb pauses, and suddenly you can almost smell him through the screen.

But let’s be so for real—this isn’t just about flowers and generational wealth. This is the same guy who used to sling your Amazon Prime packages in college, serving cock in that brown UPS uniform. Don't even pretend your mind didn't go there. I imagine him in those high socks and that logo cap, glistening in the Honolulu heat, building those arms by tossing boxes onto porches. Now he’s modeling for jewelers and luxury resorts, but my brain is stuck on the version of him that lugged packages, a walking thirst trap in tan polyester.

Now my feed is obsessed him, wrapped in plumerias, with a smile so blinding it should come with a warning label. You think you're just scrolling until you realize he's become the main character of your personal hell. Every pop-up on my screen isn't a casual glance—it's a full-body cringe, a gut punch, a glitch in the matrix. I don't want the lei; I want the man inside the lei, with the scent of gardenia and ambition tangled in his skin. It’s giving mania.

And yes, he’s married. Andrea, I hope you know what you have. The rest of us are just here, building elaborate fantasies from a UPS uniform and the sweet scent of plumeria. So let me be clear: Dane Little is officially on my shit list. The centerfold of my vision board; sweaty, fragrant, carved from marble, glowing. Dane—you’re not just a muse. You’re the whole fever dream.

And I’m starving!