Kim smiled to herself. It would have been so easy to leave the underpants behind, to rip out the boob blobs. “KIMOTHY,” Kanye had said, “YOUR CHEST IS LIKE EVIL EYES AND YOUR CROTCH IS A MEAN SMIZE AND HEED ME ‘CAUSE I’M WISE TO ALL YOUR LOWS AND ALL YOUR HIGHS AND THIS OUTFIT IS NO PRIZE AND DO YOU WANT SOME FRENCH FRIES BECAUSE I DO AND I’M GOING TO MCDONALD’S TO GET THE BACON ONES.” But Kim resisted. Because she knew that if she did, everyone would stop talking about how her sister Kylie was the youngest self-made billionaire in the world, and start talking about Kim’s nipples, or Kim’s genitals, and Kim didn’t want that. No, she much preferred that people stop talking about how her sister Kylie was the youngest self-made billionaire in the world, and start talking about other parts of her body. “Restraint,” she repeated to herself. “It’s a virtue and you are like for real f*cking killing it right now, Kimothy, or whatever.”
“Like seriously? JENGA, bitches.”
