Teen Mom Farrah Abraham writes a book without any writing skill and releases a song that not even Autotune can salvage.
I thought I’d take a look at the 3 pages MTV released and have a laugh, but the situation is much worse. If I had a physical copy, I’d spit on it. Farrah, you’re one of MTV’s “chosen ones” that represent the girls born in our generation. You earn money, publicity, and the privilege to invade music and literature. Would it kill you to visit a speech therapist? What about an English tutor? What, you’re too busy yelling cunty remarks at your mom? Buying puppies for Babygoo? Should’ve hired someone, beyatch.
What sickens me is that here’s a 21-year-old spoiled brat with money, a TV show, and an apparent modeling career. She’s writing a goddamn book about her life yet she still continues with the unnecessary cynicism and self-pity through poorly placed adjectives. I can picture you rolling your eyes after every sentence. That is, if you even did write the book. Perhaps this memoir is nothing more than a transcription of the bottlenosed narration that we had the misfortune of hearing on TV.
How would a normal human being start this story?
“I was asleep in my parents’ bed when my cellphone rang and woke me up. Sleeping in my parents’ bed wasn’t a usual occurrence for me, but earlier that night my mom invited me to watch a movie and sleep in her room. She was worried about me because my social life was crumbling, making me unhappy and lonely.
It was December 28th. The phone was still ringing, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to answer it. My mom was laying quietly on the other side of the bed and I didn’t want her to wake up or eavesdrop on my conversation. Who was calling me? There must be something really dramatic happening, I thought, for someone to be phoning this late. I’d been avoiding my friend group as an attempt to keep away from the gossip, immaturity, and late-night partying that they brought with them. At the time, I was seven months into my pregnancy and filming a show that MTV was going to air soon. Even though I was only seventeen, I wanted to get on a better path and give my baby and myself the best possible life.
My cellphone went silent and the screen lit up with a message: missed call from Kerrie. She was one of the few good friends I had left. It had been a while since the last time that we spoke about our boyfriend problems. She didn’t leave a voicemail, so I figured…”
There you go, Teen Mom. I took your mumbo-jumbo and tidied it up. By the way, your pill-popping habits are in every other tabloid and it seems like you swallowed one too many Xanax when you sat down to write this little Pulitzer winner. Word of advice - next time you want to put words into sentences, reach for the Adderall instead and save that Xanax for the next time you feel like screaming your cunt off at your mother in the presence of a camera. And remember - too many of either and you’ll be a vegetable in the same patch that Amber is currently weeding up.