Glenderful's Shit List: Henry Golding

Let's get real for a second. In this chaotic hellscape we call modern life, where your phone's blowing up with every faggot's hot take on the latest drama, notifications, emails, that one auntie sliding into your DMs about why you're still single. It's all noise, honey, and before you know it, you're scrolling through another day without manifesting a damn thing.

That's why I'm obsessed with goals and vision boards—they're like a spiritual middle finger to the bullshit. Your goals? They're the fire that lights up your queer little soul, the stuff that makes you feel alive instead of just surviving another brunch where everyone's pretending they're not hungover. But life loves to derail you, right? Enter the vision board: a glossy, Pinterest-worthy slap in the face reminding you what you're chasing. It's you screaming to the universe, "This is what I want, bitches—deliver!"

In the middle of all this madness, your vision board is that beacon, pulling you back to what actually matters. It's your daily nudge to ditch the distractions, prioritize your fantasies, and strut toward them like you're on the runway at Fashion Week. So, let's spill: My latest addition to Glenderful's Shit List? Henry Golding, obvi. This is me calling him into my orbit, and girl, I'm vibrating at a frequency that's gonna make it happen. I dare you to do the same—grab some magazines (or your phone, let's be real), slap together what sets your world on fire, and watch the magic unfold. We rise above the faggot-flinging haters and claim our dreams!

Now, let's talk about this vision of modern masculinity, a perfect mash-up of Asian heritage and British polish that has me weak. Henry's got those sharp, defined features—high cheekbones throwing shade in the softest light, almond-shaped eyes dripping with mystery. His skin? That warm, golden glow straight from his Malaysian roots, and his hair? Always styled with that effortless elegance framing his face like it's art. Add in that British accent—a velvety symphony that caresses every word, commanding the room while staying all gentle and inviting. It's the voice of a true gentleman, luvs.

His vibes? Refined AF, with mannerisms that scream quiet confidence: adjusting cufflinks like it's a ritual, that subtle nod when he's really listening. But oh, the sexiness—it's not just the looks (though, whew), it's that secret in his eyes, promising something wild. His smile? Playful one second, seductive the next. The way he moves? Hypnotic, fluid, like he's got the whole world on a string. Henry's all contrasts: strength meets vulnerability, polish with raw edge. Captivating? Understatement of the decade.

Born in the lush vibes of Sarawak, Malaysia, and raised bouncing between there and the U.K., he's got that Iban-British heritage that's pure cinematic catnip—explains why cameras swoon every time he steps in frame. Career glow-up? From hosting travel shows to exploding onto the scene with Crazy Rich Asians, then flexing in A Simple Favor (brooding king), slicing through Snake Eyes, and stacking prestige roles like it's nothing. Off-screen? Adventure junkie, surfer, fitness god, world's hottest dad, living that sun-drenched life that makes my gym excuses look pathetic.

Food-wise, he reps his roots with laksa, roti canai, anything spicy enough to ascend your soul, but balances it with a proper British roast because duality, sweetie. Honey, I'm ready to gobble that scat up! Everyone knows him from Crazy Rich Asians—yeah, he slayed, made him a star, and I'm here for it. Love Kevin Kwan's books, love Singapore. But that flick? All gloss, clichés in designer drip. I lived in China for 13 years—Asia's deeper, messier than that.

But Monsoon? That's the gem. A biracial queer expat wandering Vietnam, piecing together belonging. Quiet, patient, the camera just lingers—the rain on Saigon, memories haunting rooms. It flopped commercially because indie life, but Henry chose it over blockbuster bait. That's an artist, not some Hollywood faggot chasing checks. He gets what cinema does when you strip the fluff: hits the soul.

Yes, Henry's sexy as fuck, but he's an artist—that's real alpha energy. Like I've always said, it ain't just looks or body (though he crushes both). His shit? I envision the split first—a soft, steaming seam revealing itself. Play up that Brit dining: a generous smear of clotted cream, thick and pale as dawn, texture like butter's richer cousin. Dollop of jam on top—strawberry or raspberry, tart jewels cutting the indulgence. Cream first or jam? County wars, auntie debates. Tea usually pairs, strong and milky, but honey? Ditch the tea—let Henry piss straight into my mouth.

Henry Golding, welcome to Glenderful’s Shit List! With my US passport and visa-free dreams, this faggot's fantasy might manifest sooner than later. Let's go!