In my adult life, love, like the ability to resist an unopened jar of peanut butter with a teaspoon in close proximity, has evaded me. While the rest of my friends embark on meaningful relationships with partners that can remember their phone numbers, I find it hard to actually get someone to reply to my painstakingly constructed text messages. On the seemingly universal date nights that usually occur mid week, I generally retreat to my bathtub nursing a deep sense of rejection and a tub of low fat yogurt. It’s like Girls: The Weight Loss Edition.
On the surface of things, Kanye West is probably a lot more successful than I am. He’s besties with Jay Z for one, which ostensibly means unrestricted access to Beyoncé. He can afford to purchase the kind of apparel that I can only write about. He’d almost certainly beat me in a rap battle. And yet, in the past I have felt an affinity with Yeezy, attributable to the fact that, like me and my men, he could never keep a good girl down. Alexis Phifer, Amber Rose and Chanel Iman all came and went as I too failed to pin down any remotely credible love interest.
There was solidarity in our singledom sadness (even though Kanye was probably filling the proverbial and literal void with the odd supermodel). He licked his love-induced wounds by penning Runaway, while I nursed mine by racking up an obscene play count of One Direction’s seminal classic Gotta Be You on iTunes. We may have been separated by thousands of kilometres and billions of dollars in royalties, but we were in this, the wicked game of love, together.
And then came Kim Kardashian.
It was merely a whisper at first— an errant declaration of desire nestled amongst the lyrics of an otherwise innocuous rap (“And I’ll admit I fell in love with Kim,” he drawled in Way Too Cold, “’Round the same time she fell in love with him.”) I didn’t believe him. It’s easy to feign an attraction in the interest of creative output. Hell, I’ve been known to pen amorous acrostic poems purely to shift bad cases of writer’s block.
And so, Kim and Kanye didn’t really hit home until I saw the pair holding hands. A kiss captured on camera wouldn’t have proved anything— a pash can be blind animal lust, after all, but a hand? Well, Lennon and McCartney proved through the magic of song that such an action can be a lot more poignant.
I’ve been a staunch advocate of Mr. West for quite some time. Over the years, I’ve found myself defending his narcissistic tendencies and faint air of ridiculousness to anyone who dared slight his name. The first time I saw him live, I got so overexcited that I contracted an interminable case of the hiccups and had to sit out the first two sets of his performance. I like Yeezy so much that I once went out in public wearing the following ensemble.
But Kanye dating a Kardashian? I’m afraid my advocacy for the man who once deemed antique fish tanks a sound financial investment has come to the end of the line.
I’m not blind to the fact that part of my resentment stems from that most reprehensible of traits— jealousy. While Kim can, and probably does, balance full glasses of Krug on that peerless rack of hers, a misguided experiment with diet shakes has shrunk my once impressive bosom to less than half of its original size. So disappointing are my once scene-stealing twins that I am considering optioning a screenplay based on their trials and tribulations. Working title: Honey, I shrunk the Tits.
But my distaste goes deeper than that. Sartorially, this is a total mismatch. While I would happily accept Kanye as my sartorial benefactor, donning any Céline he saw fit, I am doubtful that Kim Kardashian has any sustained interest in becoming his “chick in that new Phoebe Philo.” I mean, what would she do come Halloween? More importantly, who would I have to shake my head dolefully at when perusing the ‘What They Wore’ pages of the gossip magazines while waiting for my dentail appointment? Following Anna Wintour’s glorious snub earlier in the year, will 2013 see Kim walking the Met Ball carpet on Yeezy’s arm? These are questions that I hope never to answer.
I’m not a snob. In fact, I think founding a career and fortune in the warts-and-all world of reality television is a legitimate life decision that shouldn’t be sneered at. I mean, Kim Kardashian and I have that in common. Just recently, I had a small yet powerful cameo in Being Lara Bingle. Photographic evidence below.
The point is, I understand what it’s like to be caught up in the rarefied precipices of reality television celebrity, always scared that you will be pushed into the terrifying depths of leaked sex tapes followed by relative obscurity and a job at the local IGA. But, when it comes to Mr. West, the bitch should back off and allow me the small yet discernible joy of knowing that, although he may be able to splash pocket change on Versace sofas, he’s still a certified failure when it comes to romancing the ladies.
The time has come, though, to say goodbye to my anger and realise that, when push comes to shove, Kanye West and Kim Kardashian are just as rich, shallow and (arguably) talentless as each other. In a word, soulmates. In a recent interview, Kim’s sister Khloe said of her sibling, “Kim is so happy and is such a different person… she crowd surfs now.” I suppose any endeavor that allows adolescent boys a glimpse upskirt at the world’s most famous arse is worthwhile.
Perhaps one day, Ni**as in Paris will play through my headphones and it won’t pull so insistently at those little threads that make my heart clench. In the meantime, I’ll dream of a future lover solvent enough to buy me Agent Provocateur lingerie (just a heads up— this, if you’re in the market) and with enough dental hygiene nous to avoid getting his teeth encrusted with diamonds. Kanye, it’s not you. It’s me. When you love someone, you let them go.