Reports are that Bristol Palin, daughter of the Governor and unwed teen mother of Tripp, and the thick-necked hockey player named Levi who fathered Tripp in the biological sense of the word, are not getting shot gun-married after all.
Bristol and Levi fell in love in high school. Then stopped going when Tripp popped up. (The Governor asked the world to stop saying they were high school drop outs so be clear that what they did was stop attending before they graduated: we are not talking drop outs here. No sir.)
People is reporting it was a mutual thing. Just kinda happened. You remember. Like when all of sudden the cute, funny boy who sat next to you in bio that was boyfriend-y struck you one day as inexplicably and unacceptably dorky. Things morph, noone is really at fault, and you move on. When you are 17, you get to do that. Difference here is a little Tripp.
The Star, on the other hand, is reporting phrases like White Trash have been flyin' around up there in Alaska. (Let us all hope it doesn't hit Russia and start something bigger than all of us.) And that Levi, the woulda been Second Dude, has been rebuffed in his daily runs at parentin'.
Some even report that Bristol won't let Levi take baby Tripp to over to his place. Maybe Levi's mother's alleged drug runnin' is buggin' Bristol. But poor Levi. Stopped attendin' high school and had to drop out of an oil field apprentice job due to questions about his eligibility. What's a Wasilla boy to do?
Whether a graceful decline of a deep, ever lasting connection or an abrupt end driven by Late Breaking Impressions of White Trashiness, the split is a sobering reminder of how frail love is. I mean, the boy tattooed the girl's name on his ring finger. That's right: pigment, in the form of her name, driven deep into his epidermis so that his immune system could engulf and display it until the end of time. (Or until removal.) If we can't believe in that, what is left?
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