The fact that I can even write a cohesive sentence after scrolling through Anastasiya Kvitko’s Instagram is a miracle. I suppose it’s more a matter of witnessing Anastasiya Kvitko rather than just seeing her. She’s like the Aurora Borealis if it were a glow above tropical lands. I’d thank my lucky stars for her existence if I could even tell you which way was north at this point.
My mind is a deflating bounce house with fireworks popping above. Is this what being reborn feels like? She’s the Big Bang as intermission and the best I can do is howl like a cartoon wolf who’s out of breath with a hoarse voice. What does she want from me? What does this celestial delivery of slingshot curves ask of us? Are there already 100 religions started in Kvitko’s name? She’s the Russian Kim Kardashian that’s as pure and crazy as a trading card collection of erotic fantasies.
I bet she’s tempted the powerful men of history for eons, worshipped as someone that could’ve destroyed the Roman Empire with a wink, a darling, daring Helen of Troy in Hollywood lingerie. She could honestly save or doom us. Curves like that could be deemed the shoreline of a new world and I can’t see anyone not being aboard with rewriting the history books to pay tribute to this muse that’s taken up residence in my head like I spaced out and handed her the keys with goat eyes. I think this is real-life Inception. Please send help.