Dear Angelina, Don't Ever Change.

Illustration for article titled Dear Angelina, Don't Ever Change.

Dear Angelina, Look at you. You look like a goddess, and you're bribing your kids with Chee-tos. Not even the "baked" kind. Do you know how Chee-tos are made? It's a mysterious process called "extrusion." I know that because I once worked near by the headquarters of the Snack Food Association and they had lots of brochures. You're the pawn of corporate interest groups, Angie! (Fun fact: did you know the largest Chee-to known to exist is on display in a sleepy farming community in Iowa? It's the size of a large lemon.) Anyway, back to you. Angie. Junk food. It's not a healthy accessory to see on everybody. But I think we can all agree this is a healthy sign in you.


In the past I have — well, America has — worried about you. Worried about your eating disorder, that you'd lost that lovin' feeling for Brad, that you were moving the kids around too much, that your public post-partum case was going to fuck up Shiloh, or that your estrangement from your dad betrayed some sort of forgiveness deficiency. It's important, forgiveness, when you're a parent; I mean, I don't have to tell you this. First and foremost, you have to forgive yourself. You're never going to please everyone; there will never be enough time; someone is always going to end up shrieking at the top of her lungs and smearing you with bright orange drool. It's too easy to let shit like this get you down, to let it become an excuse to stop living.

A wise Muppet in a Dave Chappelle skit I watched one time sang a song that still resonates with me when I think about the most important tenet of parenting. I'm pretty sure the song was called "Fuck it." More rich parents, I think we can all agree, need to "fuck it." So your kids move from place to place like the very refugees your bleeding heart yearns to save? Fuck it. So you have a few glasses of wine with those twins? Fuck it. So you dab some cognac on Shiloh's pacifier when she's teething and are too busy touring war-torn camps to breastfeed? FUCK IT. Your kids have it all; money, two parents whose combined sordid pasts will never make them feel like anything is too fucked-up to be normal, and awesome haircuts. Good job. Fuck it.

Related: Chester's Got A Brand New Bag [Slate]



I love how Z's all, "Whatevs. I've got cheetos."

Maybe the baby didn't like that flavor.

On another note: At 22 I was at a party where someone served me a creme du cocoa and milk. I took a sip and it reminded me of childhood.

I immediately called my mom, it was after midnight. I asked her about all that "chocolate milk" she gave me to help me sleep. After a long pause she says, "You wouldn't go to sleep kid."

I turned out alright.