Billie Eilish - "Skinny" (Nadine's Version)

Chopped & screwed here.

Chapter 1 of 10.

For men, being born into this world as a "nepo baby" might be an asset. But for women, it can be a liability you are always expected to explain away. Whatever material conditions you were born into are merely a source of additional trauma that your parents pay for a therapist to unpack, in between the shocks they are also paid to administer.

A life of privilege as a woman often just means being a hostage at a party you are told that you’re hosting; Billie Eilish was born into that party, and her music exists inside the wreckage of the morning after. It feels as much like the aftermath of the end of the world as a Project X type rager gone awry, painted with “burning cities and napalm skies,” as she described her reality on 2017’s “ocean eyes.”

Like previous generations of female singer-songwriters scrambled the sacred and the profane, Billie Eilish lives and dies on the thin abject line between the whimsical and the terrifying. 

Because existing as a woman—especially in days that feels so much like end times, with maybe only a few milliseconds until midnight, or until the cops come, or whichever might be first—is a slapstick comedy in one moment, a body horror movie in the next, and a post-apocalyptic fairy tale at the same time: twisted and tragic, but still just a little too innocent to have witnessed the affair that her eyes just happened to open upon.