Monica Lewinsky post-Clinton affair.
Friend to friend, or in this case, fro to friend, Monica, you need to stop reliving the nine times you hid under Former President Clinton’s desk like George Costanza on Seinfeld and slurped on his peen. That shit happened fifteen years ago. That’d be like me bragging about going to the gym fifteen years ago. People would be like, “Yeah, but it’s 2012 and your badonk spreads more than wildfire during Smokey the Bear’s lunch break when you put on a pair of sweatpants:”
The point is, Mon, that you apparently got a penthouse suite in LivingInThePastville because why the eff did you just sell a memoir that will focus on your affair with Clinton to an undisclosed publisher for $12 million dollars? Obvs, you’re doing it for the money, but like what else is there to be said about the relationship? We know what happened. Sure, revealing the secret love letters that Clinton sent to you would probably make someone like Nicholas Sparks freak out because he would realize that he could never such beautiful panty dropping poetry. However, to me, I get an overwhelming sense of desperation in knowing that Lewinsky is going to release these love letters, which will also detail how unhappy Clinton was in his marriage. But more than desperation, this situation just seems incredibly sad. My sadness is threefold: 1) Reliving this affair is how Lewinsky plans on paying her damn bills, 2) Lewinsky seems to have resigned herself to the fact that she will never known for anything else other than as “the girl who blew the President” and 3) that rehashing this affair is pretty careless and must be undoubtedly painful for Hillary and Chelsea Clinton.
Look, e’erybody needs money to live. And I get that Lewinsky probably can’t put a résumé on Monster.com and expect to get a job that way. But the way she is going about profiting off her former ho life is obviously dumb. And, frankly, as a non-ho, I can’t believe I’m having to give instructions on ho game. A key to ho game is that you don’t marinate in ho ways like a fried dumpling in soy sauce. You use the ho ways to springboard yourself into legitimate, mainstream shit. Case in point, Kim Kardashian. She didn’t keep reliving the Ray J sex tape and release a director’s commentary version of it two years after it happened. Instead, she turned a sex tape into a Playboy spread, a reality TV empire, and several endorsements and endeavors, including a clothing collection at Sears. SEARS. That is some hella Midwestern shit. Bitch is making beaucoup money now appealing to e’erybody including the Midwest and barely anyone talks about the sex tape now. That’s what you should be doing, Monica. And you tried for a minute. You turned your ho shit into an endorsement deal with Jenny Craig but then you followed that up with an appearance on The Tom Green Show on MTV, so you might as well not done the ho shit, focused on your internship, gotten a good D.C. job, and then be like me and count calories at Chipotle during lunch.
All kidding aside, not only does writing this book prove that Lewinsky failed to medal at the Ho Shit Olympics, but it reveals something far more troubling. She stuck. In that time. That moment of infamy. And it’s not healthy especially when it appears that everyone involved and/or immediately affected by it has moved on for the better. Former President Clinton has a lucrative career as a public speaker and remains politically active and heavily involved in charity via his Clinton Foundation, Hillary is the Secretary of State, and daughter Chelsea is a correspondent for NBC News and also active in the Clinton Foundation. Sure, they all struggled emotionally (and for Bill and Hillary, the struggle was also professional) following the media circus, but in the end, they have bounced back pretty well. Lewinsky, on the other hand has not, which isn’tentirely her fault.
The world, for a good three to five years was pretty consumed with the sex scandal. She was pretty much known as “the girl who blew the President.” And because thus affair happened at such a young age – she was only 22 – when she was most likely still figuring out who she was, it has undoubtedly become a part of her identity. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not excusing her behavior. She was definitely old enough and smart enough to know that engaging in an extramarital affair was not a good idea. However, at an age when you are so unsure of yourself and then for the next three to five years to be told who and what you are – a home wrecker, a punchline on late night TV, a skank, chubby – then it’s nearly impossible to escape it and define yourself.
The reality is that she will be tied to this scandal for the rest of her life. And that must be horrible and painful. However, there isn’t much she can do with how she will be remembered in history in regards to President Clinton. That’s out of her hands. What she can control is herself. She can opt to not indulge in rehashing her past. She can resist giving people something that most probably aren’t that interested in. She can stop acting as though the fact that she blew the President is all she has to offer and then perhaps the world will stop treating her as that’s all she’s worth. She doesn’t have to do what is expected of her by writing this book. At thirty-nine years old, she can and should be the author of her life.
As far as the Clintons go, this memoir probably won’t affect them much, if at all, publicly. Former President Clinton is on media campaign for the reelection of President Obama and Chelsea seems to be living a rather quiet life outside of the NBC News gig. Although I’m sure Hillary, on some level, must be thinking, “Not this shit again:”
Because just like this affair haunts Lewinsky, it certainly haunts Hillary. To have to relive the embarrassment, the humiliation, the public questioning whether or not she should stay in her marriage is certainly painful. And it seems rather cruel that someone, who played an integral role in her personal nightmare, continues to profit from it. After all, this will be Lewinsky’s second book about the affair and isn’t that two too many, especially because it was NINE BLOW JOBS!! Stories about nine blow jobs should not fill up two books; that shit barely fills up three pages in a Mead Five-Star Notebook.
So Monica, please, enough is enough. Quit bringing up those times you and President Clinton hooked up. Put your master’s degree in social psychology to some good use. Or at the very least, learn how to turn your ho ways into less eyerolling behavior and move on with your life.
