Since age struck me down nine years ago, I have haunted the people’s memories in lightning flashes of love, thunderous outpourings of affection crystallizing into opaque amber, providing me an escape from the almond scents of the abyss. In my ghostly form I have resuscitated my old habits; every morning, I enjoy the pleasure of adorning my suede suit, spreading cocoa butter on my translucent skin, and threading my watch-chain through the buttonhole in my vest that is sprinkled with florida water. I descend down the spiral steps of my cool, two-story colonial house with Doric columns overlooking the Caribbean bay, decorated with its silhouetted shipwrecks and blackened animal carcasses. The house, of course, has new tenants now, to whose whims I am a roped and shackled slave. They are avid watchers of la tele, and I often observe them disappearing into labored paralysis for many hours, solemnly descending in front of the screen to see a new episode of their favorite show. They call it ‘Las Kardashians’. 

Oh, what a delicate meditation on love! Every week, as they sat in front of la tele to watch their goddesses come to life, I was introduced to each angel of the Kardashian altar: Kim, with her olive skin and almond-shaped eyes betraying a divine stature; Kendall, whose naïve eyes and nimble frame call to mind a blossoming fawn; Kris, the pixie-haired and affable matriarch, Kylie, whose mechanical aura conceals a sensuality that could devour a leopard whole, and Kourtney, who was born with the tail of a pig. Enveloped by solitude, and yet lashed by love, this family transcended time, seemingly capable of escaping mortality.

But amongst all this beauty, there was one fluttering little bird I could not expel from my mind, no matter what methods I attempted: Khloe Kardashian, the impossible maiden, that vulnerable child of God, whose presence made me wish I was wealthy with youth only so I could offer her remunerations of love. I simply could not understand why everyone in the world was not as disturbed as I by her lidded eyes, her ostentatious curls, her weightless vigor, why no one’s heart beat with the clicks of her thin-strap Jimmy Choos, why no one else gave unrequited love to her radiant smile and rows of large white teeth. I do not often pray, but I found myself thanking God for placing me witness to her beauty that appears more radiant than the spray-on tan that houses it, a tan likening her to even the finest of Caribbean beauties. I was drunk on Khloe, on her jet-sets to Miami to care for her mental health, on her pursuit of a robust business acumen matched only by her robust shoulders, on her saintly love for her two children which cannot be polluted by media, glamor, or Tristan Thompson. I must confess that when I sat every week to watch The Kardashians I had an ugly ulterior motive, coiled inside me like a panther waiting for the coup de grace; I wished to see Khloe, only Khloe. 

Alas, my burning tryst was forcefully extinguished. It happened suddenly, like an alligator on the Magdalena riverbanks slipping into the water, as the new tenants of my household finally finished binge watching Las Kardashians. Just like that, the family of toy birds to whom I had endeared myself floated out of the colonial house, their plastic figures fluttering towards the glistening Caribbean bay. No more Kim, no more KKW Fragrance, no more Kendall, no more Estee Lauder, no more Miami, no more Hailey Bieber cameos, no more lip gloss, no more Kylie, no more Kris, no more Khloe. And, indeed, no more love for me to give. I desperately wish to see them again, their sleek dispositions conveying a transcendental love, their feminine vitality giving me a reason to live, quieting the calls of the cacophonous dead. My tenants have moved on to other shows, vesting their infidelity into American Ninja Warrior and Whose Line is it Anyway, but I will wait for my Kardashians for fifty years or one hundred, until my city is wiped out by the fateful wind, or until Season Four is released, which is actually pretty soon.