Paris, I had this dream about you.

We were hanging out in the hotel room where I stayed when I came to Hollywood back in 2001. That was a rough time for me, Paris. On that trip, I did coke (which I never fucking do) and drank a lot, hung out with a Z-List actor, got sexually assaulted by his friend, and had the first of the morning pukes from the last of my pregnancies.

But, anyway, bam. There we were in the Best Western on Western and Sunset, top floor, opening up the window and hanging our feet out of it like sisters. And you apologized to me for saying the word ‘nigger’ and I laughed and said ‘nigga, please’.

And later on after the E kicked in, just when I was about to eat you out, I noticed your first herpes sore, and told you, ‘Honey, maybe you should go get that looked at.’

And then I woke up in 2007 next to my boyfriend, thank god.

*

See, hon. I have this theory that people like you and Miss Courtney Love aren’t actually doing anything that Bessie Smith and Janis Joplin and dozens of flapper girls back in the 1920s (not to mention myself) didn’t already do, and do more of. The only difference now is that there’s YouTube and blogging and all the comments areas of places like defamer.com where people can wag their fingers or point at the trainwreck from the relative comfort of their bourgeois existences, dahhhhhling.

I had this other idea that maybe people like you and Courtney and Lindsay and Kimora and all those other women who can be identified by first name alone are actually all secretly temple goddesses to a very well hidden, yet very powerful version of Bacchus that now exists, fueled by the passions and secret desires of all the looky-loos in all the grocery store lines in all the world.

Or, alternately, you’re just a huge, spoiled, slut. But the point is, you’re not the first on the planet.

*

Perhaps one day you’ll be able to part ways with the video camera; I mean, shit, girl, you carry it around more than that chick did in the Blair Witch Project. She carried it around like her last connection to anything real; you carry it around to reassure yourself that you won’t disappear under lack of scrutiny. It’s what the kids at Encyclopaedia Dramatica would refer to as ‘attention whoring’. Classic attention whores are often afflicted with dramas such as camwhore pasts, abortions, STDs, and forgetting to pay the storage locker fee.

A few suggestions for getting back on your feet after having all your dirty laundry exposed. Put the phone down, Paris. Or at least get the kind without a camera. Gauche, I know, but still. Lose Coke Chest Guy’s number. Seriously; he reminds me of the dad from American Dad.

Then call up Nicole Ritchie and ask her if she’s black enough to give you a pardon for the youthful n-bomb. I’d give you one myself, but they revoked my black license for owning a copy of Metallica’sMaster of Puppets back in 1990.

Finally, call up all your faggot friends and tell them that you’re technically a dyke… tie them to a chair, give them mojitos, and show them video proof of you making out with girls. Then tell them that dykes have historically hated faggots. Then accept their apologies.

*

After all that, you might consider getting yourself kidnapped by the local hipster chapter of Aum Shin Rikyo or the Moonies or the Mooninites or whatever cult’s going on these days, and become the next TANIA.

And keep taking your Valtrex.

Love,

Glossolalia Black