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June 22, 2006

The Fug Life

Dear Diary,

"Well, hello, sailor!"

Hee! I think that is the coolest pickup line EVAH! And I decided that I should dress like a sailor so that somebody would come up and say it to me and I could reply, "Sailor? I hardly know the dude." HAHA! People don't think I'm the smart one but I am, and it's good that I'm writing this diary so that when I die -- or at least when I survive some sort of tragedy, like that time I went into that horrible Goodwill store because that bitch Nicole told me they'd sell me new tires for my car -- I can write my life story and use snatches (hee! I know, Diary, but don't laugh, 'cuz it totally is a real word) of my journals to make people who hate me start crying about how much I was misunderstood.

I'm also really sensitive, though. The Simpsons totally made me sad the other day (I started watching when ManParis and I were dating and he never wanted to leave the house. He got me hooked). Anyway, Dorky Kid's father got dumped by his wife, and so he did what everyone does and recorded an album. And, like, he sang his big song and it was all, "Take my hand with your glooooove of loooooove!" Isn't that totally rad poetry? And the little dude was, like, bumming out. I told my assistant to call him and get his address so I could send him my single, and maybe invite him to a party to make him feel better (but, accidentally leave him off the list, because the invitation is enough and I don't want him there really). But apparently she couldn't find him listed in the book.

So, as a way of reaching out to the dude, I decided to dig out this wicked awesome white glove from my mother's closet -- she uses it to make the maids cry; seriously, some people are so lazy about dusting the inside of the dumpster -- and wear it so that he knows that, like, in his honor I will totally borrow somebody's feeling and squeeze it with my love-glove. And I did, because I always do, but -- don't tell the little blue-haired guy -- the glove was kind of annoying after a while. I had cut it in half, and it kept falling off in people's drinks, and in the toilet, and down a few people's pants. Seriously, that is the last time that I let Nicky convince me I can't wear fingerless gloves because it's Opposite Day. [I think she was lying about that anyway, since it's not on my calendar until August.]

I have a confession to make, though, Diary: I'm not really sure about the shoes. They remind me of mustard, which I refuse to eat, because Stabby Nachos told me it comes from squeezing people's mustache clippings and I do NOT think PETA would be very happy about THAT, and they hate me enough already. Truthfully, Nicky made me wear the shoes because she's doing some stupid Tweety Bird collection for one of those stores, and I secretly think that is lame, but I don't have the heart to tell her that -- at least not until there are enough other people around to overhear it, because otherwise, she won't stop and I'll have to put up with her on Project Runway again when they won't even return my CALLS, those bitches.

Anyway, good night, sweet diary! I have to go wash the love-glove before Mom sees the stains on it. I might just plant it in the maid's purse -- is that wrong? She totally looked at me meanly the other day when I told her to separate out the latex in my garbage from all the recyclables (I LOVE the Earth, dude). So she sort of deserves what she gets, I think, right? Right!

High-five with my love-glove,


Posted by Heather at 06:35 AM in Paris & Nicky Hilton | Permalink


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