Last night, I tweeted at Kanye West for the first time ever. Did I think he'd read the tweet? No, duh. But I did want to document that my feet hurt a lot, and that it was his fault entirely.
A substantial group gathered under the Flaunt magazine tent in Wynwood waiting for Kanye to arrive. The audience steadily melted, along with the mud on the totally naked performers' bodies. We -- nude ladies and black-clad crowd -- all ended up collapsing slowly to the floor with fatigue. Kanye was supposed to be the cherry on top of the dirt slathered, human sundae that was L.A. artist Vanessa Beecroft's performance. Sure, it wasn't billed that he was definitely attending, but there's no doubt he was the "special guest."
"For the love of Yeezus!" we silently screamed, "Show us some 'Mercy,' 'Ye!" But the whole night was certainly not ruined by the lack of a ramble about rappers making designer clothes (for the people who cannot afford them). Nope. About 20 minutes of Kendrick Lamar at the end of the night almost completely erased the memory of that grueling hour and a half that we spent waiting with fear for vaginas to finally emerge from beneath thinning mud. And we're not exaggerating, Kendrick really, really did it.