And now that you've polished your personas enough with the help of your PR team that you're hoping we pay attention to your every move, your personal life is forfeit. It belongs to us now, the general public, and like everyone else who stumbled across one of your softball interviews, I have some notes. A lot of what I'm about to tell you is going to sound intentionally cruel, and I assure you that most of it absolutely is. But there's also some genuine advice in here. You're only kids, after all, and I suspect you don't have anyone in your life who is watching all the weird, ostentatious things you do and is willing to say, "Hey, maybe knock that shit off."
Yes to whatever you're both doing with your hands there. That screams self-assurance.
For starters, where on earth are your parents? It seems unfair to call you the offspring of a famously wealthy couple when you are more accurately the sheddings of a fiscally motivated hump. Two humps, actually. Your father is thick-eyebrowed millionaire Peter M. Brant, and your mother is Stephanie Seymour, a supermodel who is 21 years his junior. Where are those people whose natural instinct should be to protect you from your own arrogant stupidity? That's not to say that you are abnormally stupid. You're only teenagers, and you're eager to show the world how you solved being alive. The problem is that you have no one around to tell you how wrong you are. For instance, in the interview with the New York Times, you were asked about your interests, and you said: