Rihanna’s pregnancy reveal was all anyone talked about yesterday. Aside from the general joy of hearing good news about a person you love, it was a welcome respite from tracking Omicron’s every move, trying to ignore Joe Rogan, and powering through winter in New York. The images sold to media outlets this past weekend showed our queen aglow, in Harlem during a snow shower. She was dressed in a pink puffer with her bulbous belly out, her jeans curiously dragging on the ground. Radiant nonetheless, she walked hand in hand with boyfriend and anchor baby sperm-infuser A$AP Rocky, who appeared rightfully smitten. I was genuinely happy to see it.
But happiness wasn’t my first emotion. This is incredibly selfish and I’m embarrassed to say it out loud, but my first reaction was disappointment. A little sadness with a dash of anger. Rihanna was never a mere mortal to me. She’s a beacon of independent womanhood, the zenith of sexual freedom embodied. She’s a voluptuous, gender-irrelevant medieval dragon of desire with 100 middle fingers to flick off the world with because she was born with no fucks to give. Rihanna is the holy grail of feminine power, more than enough for the world, all on her own.
