Kristin Cavallari is my guilty pleasure. I admit, I hated her guts in MTV’s “Laguna Beach,” because she was like the villain you could never defeat, the popular cheerleader who always got your guy…inevitable.
Like everyone else in America, I came away with a bad, if not conflicted, impression of her. I wanted to dismiss Malibu Barbie with the usual clichés, and yet, I couldn’t because she definitely gave off a justifiably popular vibe.
That’s the conflicted part, which only deepened when I watched her reality-TV series, “Very Cavallari.”
There, my hate turned to blind adoration.
Turns out, she earned every penny of her rise to fame. I saw her as hard-working, but smart with her time, cool, but not completely heartless around the less fortunate and innocent. I admired her devotion as a mother of three young children, and her patience for dealing with now ex-husband Jay — and that weirdo fake friend Jen, Shannon, or Kelly.
Now, she’s got her own podcast, “Let’s Be Honest,” and it is, refreshingly so.
She is the girl you always wished you could be, or the best friend you deserved — if you were a better person.
But you’re not, loser.
She speaks in a kind of poetry a cool kids’ language I will never understand.
But again, conflict…because I will never run in her orbit, I wouldn’t fucking dare. A huge part of me is saying to myself, “Who the fuck do I think I am?,” as if I rustled up the courage to crash her private party…and instantly regretted my social faux-pas.
After watching a few of her podcasts, riffing about sex, dating, friendships, and ex-lovers, cool shit, I felt … so ugly and stupid and wrong.
I honestly wanted to jump off a roof.
Now I know how a stray mutt feels after taking a huge shit on the marble floor.
On a deeper level, beautiful people like her make me think hard about the very real hierarchy/caste system at play in society, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not…
…associated with things like eugenics and frequent attempts throughout history of using war and poverty as a distraction for ungodly experiments on children of a lesser god to improve the popular outcome, i.e., purify the human race, pick the perfect baby pre-in utero, A.I.’s role in eliminating death and disease and weakness, and allegations of depopulation by the elites.
It’s nothing on Kristin. She’s just herself, and she has her shit like everybody else.
It’s just what she reminds me. It’s why I can’t bear standing next to beautiful, slender, blonde women who look like her, and how I feel a sickening twisting crack and thud deep inside — as if someone cold and cruel were bludgeoning me to death.
Then, I start thinking about why people are born with horrible deformities, or merely born the complete opposite of a Kristin Cavallari…like me.
I find myself wanting to buy beauty and lifestyle products she endorses, her cookbook, clothes, and jewelry. But that’s like walking into Hollister and trying to find a shredded pair of skinny jeans and crop top in a fat-ass size they would never carry, in the color orange and purple, which would look abominable on me.
Or going to my hair stylist and demanding she color my hair just as blonde, thinking I can carry off the all-American look when I waddle into a hipster bar in L.A., full of other beautiful people like her.
Can you imagine?
She would never, but I’ve had other beautiful babes in San Francisco, Seattle, Honolulu, and Tampa give me the stink eye at clubs, like, how dare I even show my face around them, tainting their lovely aura and ruining the lavender mood?
I’m the overweight little girl in glasses and a bee outfit in that Blind Melon video. Only, I’m worse, because I can’t even fit in the bee outfit, with my dog face and gargantuan Bigfoot body. Not even the bee tribe of outcasts wants to be friends with me.
I don’t like myself or my life very much when I’m around the likes of Kristin Cavallari. There’s a lot of her going around on social media, it seems.
I’m reminded too much that I was almost a bleeding pile of trash on the clinic floor when my mom’s friends said to abort me.
If you’re feeling good about yourself, go read the comments on Kristin’s Instagram after a booty post. You’ll feel suicidal in no time.
What the fuck am I doing here? What is my point?
Am I clean-up in aisle two? The drunken fat slob who just won’t take the hint and leave? Gum disease, pubic hairs, and broken bones?
So, this explains why I’m obsessed with k-dramas, I suppose. I’m with my people, trying to look past the grime and enjoy simple pleasures, sitting on the floor loudly slurping up kim-bap and ramyeon in a humble part of the world where the Kristins are far away, like a forgotten god.