On Tuesday, Beyonce celebrated her 31st birthday and it all looked divine. Her weave was perfect, there isn’t one paparazzi photo of Blue Ivy crying, their yacht has the some of the best nautical cutlery I’ve ever seen. She posted the inside of all of her birthday cards to her Tumblr, which would be a little tacky if she didn’t know how much we all were dying to read what the Paltrow-Martins’ handwriting looks like.
So, in short, the Queen Beysus had a pretty good day. But I’ve surprised even myself by not thinking just about Bey on her special day. I was thinking about Solange.
Every so often I look around my dad’s house and slip into a brief psychosis wherein I wish I had a younger sister. Then I come to and realize what a horrible idea that is. There can only be one Babe per family, and I’d feel bad for whatever poor girl had to live in my shadow. I feel like Solange is that hypothetical mini-Walker. What must it be like to know that whatever you do, there will always be a better, slightly older person with your exact same chromosomes? That shit can get a bitch trapped in a crazy rut. As in a rut of craziness. As in someone who would arrive in public looking like this and expecting to be photographed.
So let’s think of Solange and all get a little bummed out for a minute before we forget who she is again.