If I had a time machine, I would deliver this creature to Churchill and ask him to think twice about his nemesis. I have an instinctual urge to feed Dylan dainty feet first into a woodchipper, it's the only way my psyche will know peace from his existence. The unhinged smile with beady eyes, the twink interpretation of femininity stretched like shrink wrap on his skeletal frame, the effeminate faggot drag queen style of campy body language and expression that is a mockery of everything a woman is when he's trying to pretend he's one. He inspires the kind of violence I exact on roaches. I cannot fully describe the spectrum of disgust that fuels my urge to exterminate.
Unrelated but the dichotomy of Ellen Page and Dylan trying to be forever youthful by dressing and acting like adolescents in front of cameras while developing crevasses of wrinkles and ruining their bodies... They're both hitting the gay wall in different ways, getting angry at having to dress according to gendered standards to be taken seriously in their career, and their response of being a caricature to overcompensate for their normal gay existence they can't handle anymore is just so strange to behold. They're both doing exactly the same thing, except Ellen genuinely looks like she wants to kill herself while Dylan is sufficiently high on the crack of materialism. In their quest to stop aging, they will look like Keith Richards, Donatella Versace, or Madonna with no in between. Pride comes before the fall!