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May 30, 2006

One Night In Fuggis

Dear Diary,

I've decided to do some community service so that people will know I love the world, and then love me in return. I'm very excited about it ever since my mother told me that my new sense of purpose totally took five pounds off my hips.

Today, I've decided my community service is: being a metaphor. Isn't that awesome? I got the idea when Brandon was crying to me about how his father called him a filthy leech, and how he wouldn't listen when Brandon sobbed to him that "firecrotch" was really just meant to be some kind of metaphor for Lindsay's inner spirit. Because, HEE, I totally thought he said "megawhore," and once I stopped laughing and agreeing with him (because, Diary, she kissed my ex boyfriend -- I hate it when people touch my castaways), he explained to me that a metaphor is something that, like, means something about something. Do you see?

Well, I see.

So I decided to make a statement. And I chose world peace, all right? Because a lot of really cute boys in uniforms are dying without getting to meet me first and that is the worst. So, look at me: Up top I have this really crazy shirt with all the anchors on it, and on the bottom there are my animal-print shorts, with matching hoodie. And these two things totally don't go together, just like a lot of people in this world who don't understand each other and don't think they go together. But I want to bring these two things together, to show that we totally don't have to be at war, and even if you don't get somebody, you don't have to kill them. Like the time I met somebody from Our Can Saw at a bar. He insisted that's a state, and I didn't believe him because I could swear I saw one of those at a party once and it was a power tool. He said, 'No, it's a place, and I said, 'No, it's not, and I grew up in New York where there are really good schools so I think I'm probably right,' but still, he swore that's an actual state. And did I kill him? Nooooo! I bought him a drink. And let him grab my crotch. (And then slapped him when he tried to kiss me -- like, hello, my mouth is private.) So anyway, even though I sort of ended up slapping him, we were mostly completely fine, and I think the world should be the same way.

And that is what my clothes mean! Sometimes you can wear leopard and anchors and nobody has to get hurt! Can't we all just love each other? Do you think I should offer to wear this to those United Nations of America meetings?

Of course, another reason I wore this is that they're my PJs, and I didn't want to take them off, because I spent all night in them texting Matt Leinart all these awesome "drop anchor" eunuchisms or whatever -- basically, he completely wants to nail me, and I'm going to allow it as soon as his mean bosses stop making him cry by saying shit like,
'What do you want -- football as your job, or foot-jobs for your balls?' and I've seen Flashdance so I know what they're talking about even though I've NEVER done that for him (but, now that they mention it, doesn't it sound fun?). So it was, like, really romantic, and this shirt makes me think of love.

Oh, God, see? I brought it RIGHT BACK around to love. And peace. I am so awesome, Diary. I am full of things to say about things that mean things. I am a walking megawhore! Or whatever that word was.



Posted by Heather at 12:51 PM in Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink


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