You have just done something strange to your chin.
You were on “Dancing With the Stars,” a show whose title is never more than half true.
Please, look at your life! Look at your choices!
Have you really decided that sleeping with Levi Johnston after too many wine coolers is the most interesting thing that will ever happen to you? That is the least interesting thing that has happened to anyone, ever, except for one time that Woodrow Wilson thought he was going to sneeze, then didn’t.
And it’s quickly turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Consider: Your job these days is as an “abstinence advocate.” This means that you are reportedly paid more than $200,000 annually to tell strangers that you had sex with Levi Johnston and that it was a mistake. I could have told you that for free!
At the rate we’re going, your epitaph will be something along the lines of “Bristol Palin, a Daughter of Sarah, Slept With a Totally Unremarkable Guy Named Levi Johnston and Then Spent the Rest of Her Life Telling People What a Bad Idea That Was.” You can do better!
I’m all for resting on one’s laurels. I hear that it has orthopedic benefits. But these aren’t laurels.
Memoirs were once the province of people with something to say. No longer! I understand that not having something to say no longer keeps people from saying it, but it does make for a book with a less embarrassing font size. And as a general rule, if you are writing a memoir “with” someone, you probably should not be writing a memoir. In fact, I will go a step further. Anything that can be summarized in an eleven-image slideshow that includes the phrase “wine coolers” does not need to be a book.
And Bristol, you were once annoyed that so many people were talking about your private life. At least you say so in the memoir. True, complaining in your memoir about the unfair attention paid to your private life is like trying to fine people for staring at a nude you painted.
But nothing says, “My private life is no longer private” like “Hello, World, I am publishing an autobiography in which I tell you that I lost my virginity after consuming too many wine coolers on a camping trip.” I think the actual phrase you used is that you succumbed to the wine coolers’ “woozy charms.” That phrase is sort of poetic, if you squint at it and cock your head to one side. Maybe Nancy French, your co-writer, has a career in front of her!
I guess it is refreshing that you are sharing these details honestly with us? I don’t know. That’s what I would say to you, Bristol, if you came up to me in a restaurant and started saying these things, mainly to be polite and encourage you to leave.
I could share more details — you took eight pregnancy tests! You claim you were on birth control! You had a series of negative interactions with Meghan McCain! But I won’t. I’d really rather not have known in the first place.
This is the difficulty with writing a memoir at 20 years old when your primary claim to fame is having been put in the family way by the notoriously unremarkable Levi Johnston. If you’ve led a rich life, you can choose to leave out pesky details like wine coolers and pregnancy tests and locker locations in order to make room for that time you did anything of any note whatsoever. If not, you wind up giving us far, far too much information.
And in case there were any details we missed, Levi’s memoir, Deer in the Headlights, is coming out in the fall.