pull your hair out by the handfuls in front of strangers in socially distressing locations: sephora, family court, the lobbies of banks, in whatever location at which you do your paid work, while in conversation with your landlord, at the gate of ft. leavenworth prison, however in the gaze of men. leave clumps of your hair in the woods, on the prairies, in the quick trip parking lots, by the dumpster where you used to find your books, in front of every bar at which the conventionally feminine appearance earned you and your friends pitchers of domestic beer, at the intersections at which you waited for the light to turn. for your own pleasure, put your head out the window of the car and let the wind blow the hair off your head. let your friends cut locks of your hair off and tie the locks of it in black ribbons to give to other friends to leave in socially distressing locations: to scatter at ports, at national monuments, inside heroic architectures built to make ordinary people feel small and stupid, against harassers, rapists, and the police. pull your pubic hair out in large clumps from the root send it in unmarked envelopes to technocrats and oligarchs. leave your leg hair at the superfund site you once lived near. when your eyelashes fall out send them as a reverse wish to every person who has, at your illness, disappeared. your hair will fall out onto every surface you come near: it will fall into new alphabets and new words. read these words to discover the etiology of your illness: know the new alphabets only spell “capital.” if you are lucky you will read another word that means “illness has turned you into an armament” and also in the bald spots, you will read strategies for how to weaponize every toxic and putrefying cell against what you hate and what hates you. as you see a weapon in your falling hair also you will see your body as it falls is a weapon, also as it doesn’t fall. in this new theory your friend will point out that caring for you is now to care for the arms. you have turned your bed into an armory: everyone who brings you a glass of water now is also loading a gun.
Should we talk about Kim? Because it’s her, it’s Kim, it’s soooo Kim, but it’s also not quite Kim. Looking at season one Kim is like looking at the Now Kim (the True Kim) through a Vaseline-smeared lens. We recognize her, but she’s different, blurry, just out of focus. Her face is a little rounder, maybe, her voice a little softer. The confidence, the sense of divine purpose on this Earth is there, but it’s not *lightning bolts* Kim Fucking Kardashian. But knowing who she is now, and seeing who she was then, knowing what is going to happen to this person, is an incredibly delicious feeling. Like when you find out a friend hasn’t seen Fast & Furious 3: Tokyo Drift, and you’re like, what? we’re watching it right now! And you know that they are going to love it because it is the best, and they are about to have the most amazing experience of their life, and you get to sit there and watch it magically unfold. Like that.
I love this so, so much. But you knew that.