Kim Kardashian at the Met Gala
Kim Kardashian at the Met Gala
A Short Story by Cait Raft
Kim Kardashian sat on a toilet in the 2nd story bathroom of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and cried. She liked to take photos of herself crying. There was something about the way her tears rolled down her face. ”People think I’m ugly when I cry. But there’s something beautiful about it,” she thought as she flipped the iPhone camera around to face herself. She’d take the photo of the streaks and her ruined make-up and then she’d delete it and take another. If she accidentally instagrammed it, it would make the front page of TMZ within seconds. Kanye would hate it. He’d leave for Paris for three months and “forget to buy an international plan” again. There was a part of her who wanted to declare her unhappiness to the whole world but she had to keep it together tonight. She had to put on her game face but the pregnancy hormones were making it hard. Why was this happening to her? Kourtney was glowing during her pregnancy. It was the happiest she’d ever been. Kim was miserable and questioning daily if motherhood was something she was cut out for. She’d have to be cut out for it. And if not, at least she had help. Her mom already had a team of nannies lined up, set to start the day Kim is induced at Cedars Sinai.
She only walked the red carpet 30 minutes ago but Twitter was already blowing up about how ugly they thought her dress was. ”At least Ye likes it…” she kept repeating to herself. But what if he didn’t? He’s been so distant. She’s been having a hard time relating to Kanye since he started recording his album, “it’s an artist thing” “he’s an artist”…but what does that even mean? Kim thought about the ways in which she creates art. She’s an actress, a designer, a beauty icon. She’s gotten really good at drawing little faces in the corner of her notepad, maybe she should take a painting class.
“This is all Anna Fucking Wintour’s fault” she texted to her best friend, Jonathan Cheban, as she sat down in a make-up chair. She continued to check Twitter as her make-up artist wiped away the tears and replaced them with a Dior foundation. Anna Wintour had invited Kim and Kanye over to her Greenwich Village Townhouse for dinner last night. Before dining on an herb-crusted lamb on a bed of arugula, Anna invited Kim up to her office. She pulled out a floral dress that looked like Kim’s grandma MJ’s old wallpaper. ”This, my dear, is Riccardo Tisci. I got it custom designed for you, you MUST wear it tomorrow night.” Riccardo Tisci sounded familiar. She guessed he was one of the Givenchy designers but Kim didn’t want to ask and reveal her ignorance. She accepted the dress graciously and tried it on for Anna. ”You look like a painting” Anna said as her assistant nodded furiously. Kim thought she looked like Jabba The Hut and Mrs. Doubtfire had a lovechild but couldn’t say no to Anna. It was a miracle she was in Anna Wintour’s townhouse. It was a miracle she was allowed to go to the Met Gala. This was a peace offering and she accepted it graciously. As Kim blocked another mouth-breathing 14 year old boy from her Twitter account she thought about how Anna had done this on purpose to sabotage Kim’s night. ”Anna Wintour hates me.” Kim was used to being hated and it rarely bothered her. She knows her place. She’s a reality star, a business mogul, and an icon—but she’s not the most lovable fixture in pop culture. That’s fine. That’s why she loves Kanye so much, they understand each other in that way. But Anna Wintour’s contempt for her really bugged Kim. She’s tried for so many years to be accepted into the world of high fashion and continues to hit a wall. ”Fuck this.” Kim handed her iPhone to her publicist, “I want an Instagram with Madonna”.
