The miracle of rumored childbirth is a beautiful, messy landscape. We here at the headquarters of the Kylie Jenner Pregnancy-Buzz Tracking App are here to help you understand the milestones on this journey.
The pregnancy buzz is not yet a measurable thing, smaller than a seed. In a few short months, it will grow to the size of a large overripe vine fruit. Kim makes an announcement, someone jokes that maybe Kylie is carrying their child. Kylie lounges by the pool, feeling the hot sun against her skin one last time. The teens begin to perk up.
The buzz is tangible now, the approximate size and shape of a peppercorn. Kylie peeks through the shades of her velvet-lined publicity bunker; she scrolls a razor-sharp mauve nail through the photos on her phone. She posts throwback after throwback with her bare, flat, stomach exposed. The teens notice.
Kylie posts a photo of a cinnamon bun. The buzz now the size of a kumquat, larger, a funny word to hold in one’s mouth. She licks the frosting off of her fingers, knows what the picture will spark in her followers. She’s got a bun in the oven. She’s got a bun in the oven. Kylie pulls the strings. The teens dance.
The buzz is an avocado now. Everyone gobbles it up, pays a premium to have it at brunch, spreads it onto thick slices of toast. Kylie blows dust off of an old typewriter, an electricity pulsing through her. Kris pipes LaCroix into the pipes, Kylie drinks it straight from the tap, bubbles drip down her chin. The teens scroll and scroll, searching for anything.
Khloe announces her pregnancy, a foregone conclusion. The buzz is an artichoke now, everyone scraping the meat off the leaves with their teeth. Kylie cuts silk into small rectangles, into notecards. She tacks them up onto a wall with little golden spikes, something beautiful takes form in front of her. No one cares about Khloe, what about Kylie, Kylie, King Kylie, our king. The teens know. No, no, the teens think they know. The teens know nothing at all.
WHY ISN’T KYLIE IN THE CHRISTMAS CARD? WHY?? The buzz is a zucchini now, long and fibrous. Kylie imagines pushing the buzz through a spiralizer, tossing it in olive oil, slurping it up with a spoon. Kylie takes her own Christmas card— one that no one will ever see. The teens flood Kim’s Instagram comments section with red-faced emoji.
The buzz a pineapple now, soft and sweet and tasty on the inside, but hard to touch. The teens toss it around Twitter, their theories become a spiky hot potato. A misdated screenshot of a Travis Scott Snapchat leads to a fervor — she’s in labor, she’s in labor. Kylie does labor. She cracks her knuckles. She turns on a small lamp on her desk to mimic the feel of the sun. She works through the night. The teens wait.
A baby is born. Not the one that was expected. The buzz the size of a watermelon now, Kyle slices through the thick green skin of it with a knife the size of her forearm. The pink meat of the thing isn’t human, it’s pulp, paper, hardcover, filled with words. Kylie penned the next Great American Novel from inside her lux cage. The teens weep.