This year has been a little like a Duane Reade bag with the handles tied: normal-looking on the surface, but vibrating with all kinds of troubling paraphernalia within.
2025 passed in the blink of an upper bleph, and though it seems like a lifetime (roughly six to eight Nicole Kidman wigs) ago that we combed Karla Sofia Gascón’s social media for extraneous hate speech and saw Bad Bunny’s bad bunny in his Calvins, we’re nearing the end of the year’s shenanigans with Kate from The White Lotus’s rictus grin when asked if she voted for Trump. Outwardly, 2025 was everything a well-brought-up girl should be. Inside, it was screaming.
The quagmire of culture was thick as an Erewhon smoothie, and we slurped it down like an Aperol spritz at the wedding of Charli and George XCX. After the fisticuffs on the Wicked: For Good red carpet with a deranged fan, the good witch and the bad witch finally parted ways, and the gay scarecrow was crowned sexiest man alive. Meanwhile, the prince formerly known as Andrew was dethroned.
Our on/off relationship with Carrie Bradshaw finally staggered off its Peloton, though the image of Aidan jerking off in his truck left us feeling as tarnished as a White Lotus blender. Having a boyfriend is embarrassing now, and while we all looked for Raye’s husband, Callum Turner put a ring on Dua Lipa, Taylor Swift just said yes to Travis Kelce, and Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sánchez Bezos had a With Love, Meghan wedding in Venice (no, I will not elaborate).
I want to take a full moment for Harry Styles and Zoë Kravitz’s Roman romance; they are hotness squared, a sort of universe-bending rizz vortex. I am rooting for them, we are all rooting for them. And, speaking of hotties, we thought some legitimate fuckbois had Ocean’s Eleven-ed the Louvre, but it turned out their mugshots weren’t real. (I think being an extremely hot museum robber only happens in films; in reality, a forgettable face seems fundamental in the profession.) Pope Francis died, as did the Hollywood wax as Skims merkins sold out. Our Labubu-ed brains melted when the devil wore Valentino Rockstuds, Bianca Censori wore nothing to the Grammys, and Sydney Sweeney wore her controversial American Eagle jeans. Rosalía took us to Berghain, Katy Perry took us to space, and a CEO took his co-worker to the Coldplay concert.
Adolescence was better than good and Noah Wyle scrubbed back into The Pitt, but TV on the whole felt a little flat. I wish my innie had watched Season 2 of Severance so I didn’t have to remember it, and I’m not sure why we all felt comfortable critiquing the gaps in Aimee Lou Wood’s (brilliantly British) teeth. Elsewhere, while Deborah Vance quit late night, Jimmy Kimmel took a forced sabbatical and Stephen Colbert was fired altogether.
But 2025 wasn’t all controversy and tooth-shaming. Zohran Mamdani won the New York mayoral election and didn’t not call Trump a fascist to his face. Rodent man turned hot priest Josh O’Connor had the hottest autumn on record. It’s hard to see people living your dream, but Gabby Windey and Robby Hoffman get a hall pass. The Met Gala celebrated black dandies, Victoria Beckham spiced up Netflix, and there was more than enough pucking in Heated Rivalry.
2025 isn’t whimpering out the backdoor like a murdered faithful. It’s not a total slow horse. It had the abracadabra of a Gaga gig, the Champagne-supernova fizz of an Oasis reunion, the sweet spoonfuls of Essex honey. It Ping-Ponged like a Chalamet, made a mess like Patti LuPone. But soon, as the clock strikes 12, we can tie off the Duane Reade bag, discard it all, and step into 2026.