Nonfiction
A Haha to Kim Kardashian
Summer came. I was burned out. Then I turned to Kim Kardashian’s Instagram.
I spent my childhood writing. I thought about many things, and I felt even more things. I wanted to write everything, hoping my closest people—including myself—would think and feel the same. My mom was also a writer and told me to write like “the blandest soup made with the richest beef.” That meant never using “big words”—as she called them—such as love, death, or any comment under Kim’s posts.
Love, and many others from that collection, is extremely abstract. The definitions of those big words are simply subjective; some even resort to defining a big word through other bigger words. That inherent ambiguity is what allows those words to be applied in a multitude of situations, ranging from shower thoughts to intense philosophical breakdowns. And our independent journeys to bring clarity, incessantly navigating in the sea of memory looking for a mere glimpse from that ontological lighthouse, are intertwined with who we are. Our beautiful subjectivities of those words are unique, like Kim’s Instagram posts, valuable, like her comments, and right, not left. As much as Rupi Kaur has seen her devil, I’ve seen mine: a toddler on an airplane. Tell me, am I wrong?
That impenetrable righteousness, however, doesn’t seem far away. We aspire to become more right. And we think that some are getting “closer”—by showing, not telling, or whatever functions those defending “real” literature seem to suggest. In Lemonade, we see how Beyoncé created “[her] own sobbing self-portrait to make sure [her] mascara smears in the most perfectly disheveled way” (Mapes, 2016). On the desperate Sandcastles, she embraces her weakness after a reckless roar and celebration of anger. She breaks her voice—finally, just at the right time. And there is an ugly peculiarity—sometimes ingenuity—when we imagine Beyoncé micro-strategizing “love” with her record label. Should we celebrate, fear, or never believe the capitalist philosopher? Does TWICE actually know what love is?
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But who cares. I feel good when I read “That’s hot” under Kim’s posts. I feel sad when I read some more comments under Kim’s posts. Who cares about the imperfectness of emotions when it motivates people to create more? Who cares about money-hungry sharks when we can learn from them?
Ah, the drama of it all.
I spent my childhood writing. I thought about many things, and I felt even more things. I wanted to write everything, hoping my closest people—including myself—would think and feel the same. My mom was also a writer and told me to write like “the blandest soup made with the richest beef.” That meant never using “big words”—as she called them—such as love, death, or any comment under Kim’s posts.
Love, and many others from that collection, is extremely abstract. The definitions of those big words are simply subjective; some even resort to defining a big word through other bigger words. That inherent ambiguity is what allows those words to be applied in a multitude of situations, ranging from shower thoughts to intense philosophical breakdowns. And our independent journeys to bring clarity, incessantly navigating in the sea of memory looking for a mere glimpse from that ontological lighthouse, are intertwined with who we are. Our beautiful subjectivities of those words are unique, like Kim’s Instagram posts, valuable, like her comments, and right, not left. As much as Rupi Kaur has seen her devil, I’ve seen mine: a toddler on an airplane. Tell me, am I wrong?
That impenetrable righteousness, however, doesn’t seem far away. We aspire to become more right. And we think that some are getting “closer”—by showing, not telling, or whatever functions those defending “real” literature seem to suggest. In Lemonade, we see how Beyoncé created “[her] own sobbing self-portrait to make sure [her] mascara smears in the most perfectly disheveled way” (Mapes, 2016). On the desperate Sandcastles, she embraces her weakness after a reckless roar and celebration of anger. She breaks her voice—finally, just at the right time. And there is an ugly peculiarity—sometimes ingenuity—when we imagine Beyoncé micro-strategizing “love” with her record label. Should we celebrate, fear, or never believe the capitalist philosopher? Does TWICE actually know what love is?
But who cares. I feel good when I read “That’s hot” under Kim’s posts. I feel sad when I read some more comments under Kim’s posts. Who cares about the imperfectness of emotions when it motivates people to create more? Who cares about money-hungry sharks when we can learn from them?
Ah, the drama of it all.
Bibliography
Mapes, J. (2016). Beyoncé: Lemonade. Pitchfork. Retrieved July 7, 2022, from https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/21867-lemonade/