When I first moved to New York, I spent the majority of two months sitting on the couch of the apartment I was subletting, tearing through the DVD collection of my new film buff room mate. Sure, I had heard of David Lynch many times before, and perhaps even feigned knowledge that I didn’t necessarily have on occasion. But I had never actually sat down to enjoy the magically bizarre (read: fucking psychotic) worlds he creates in his films. Lucky for me, said film buff roomie was a bit of a hoarder and happened to own every dvd box set that’s ever been released from the prolific director of weird.

And so, for those two months, I sat (sometimes quite stoned) on said couch, absorbing the sometimes unsettling scenarios of Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks, Wild at Heart and so on. Amazing. Best (slash, most emotionally draining), two months of my life thus far. Well, that’s not true, but it adds something of a dramatic effect to this post.

Lynch is a master of creating complex characters that completely enthrall you while simultaneously freaking you the fuck out. And the women… Ooooh the women. So intricately stylized it’s almost as though you’re reading into the deep-seated fetishes that lie inside his mad scientist brain. And so, we present the ladies of Lynch. The women who bat their lashes and purse their red lips with the precision of a hired assassin. Meow.