Being a person who didn't receive a bakkifull of red roses from the Jesus-adjacent prophet called Ye on Valentine’s Day, I can't say what that moment would have actually felt like. But I can try to put myself in Kim Kardashian’s shoes.
I imagine it felt more like Deliverance than your usual DHL delivery. I mean, this situation unfolding in the driveway somewhere in Calabasas, California, was a logistical nightmare — where do you put the bakkieload of roses?
This is a much more urgent question than you might imagine, in a house designed by the Belgian king of minimalism Axel Vervoordt. Is there even one thing in that ocean of emptiness that could be considered a vase? And if there is such a thing, believe me that thing is not made for the red rose, which is the precise opposite of the ideal minimalist bloom, a single stem of rare and profound beauty in a subtle shade of pale.
I don’t even know what you start doing with thousands of red things in that pristine white house. It's a very aggressive act. Obviously not on the scale of the guy who beheaded his runaway teenage wife in Iran and posted pictures of himself carrying her severed head on Instagram last week.
The latter bit of news hasn't made any headlines for reasons that are mysterious to me but probably have something to do with the fact that Kanye dominates the echo chamber in a world that doesn't really want to think about the fate of runaway teenage brides in Iran. So back to what really matters. The passive aggressive delivery. The staff must have been beside themselves.
You have to admire the timing of the guy. The truckload of red roses representing Ye’s Krystal Klear vision and his beating, desperate need to be let back into the fold arrived exactly 360 days after Kim had her own Krystal Klear vision of Klarity and that was one that resulted in a visit to her legal team.
Now I'm not saying that Ye’s grand gesture was not grand or a gesture but I am saying that most divorces are brought on after events marked on the calendar by great big giant X’s and celebrated in flurries of consumerist madness. Christmas, New Year's, Valentine’s Day — all leading the parties involved in the great flurries of display expected of you on these high days and holidays to question their lives and make some pretty hard decisions.
So, five days after Valentine’s Day last year, Kim filed for divorce. They could have consciously uncoupled (like that time Gwyneth drop-kicked Chris Martin's ass) and really, that was what Kim was aiming for — doing her thing, going on Saturday Night Live, meeting Pete Davidson, quietly shooting her Vogue cover, just doing things for herself. More of herself, because all these years of putting herself out there for others had taken it out of her. But Kanye will have none of it, and Pete had better stay away from his kids.
If you're going down the prophet route, you need to be relatable to the people you're leading to a better place
I think Kim probably retreated to her cryo chamber to do a little judicious screaming. Then she returned to script. A script that Kanye has never, ever read. I suppose that's why he's beloved by millions. He's messy. And lately he's messianic. And if you're going down the prophet route, you need to be relatable to the people you're leading to a better place because, let’s face it, this place sucks and before you know it you're writing messages on a yellow legal pad and staring balefully into your Instagram, hoping your ex-wife will just give in and make the noise go away. If you shout loudly enough and WRITE ALL YOUR MESSAGES ON THE SOCIALS IN CAPITAL LETTERS, surely she will see what a huge, mammoth, insane mistake she's making by letting you go? And then delete your entire Instagram account except for an apology for the self-same CAPS.
Everyone has been there, though. Where your heart is like a giant bakkieload of roses and there's just no suitable receptacle.
