Mein Kampf: Paris Hilton's Prison Diary, Day 14

June 18th 2007

Dear Diary,

I can scarcely believe that it has been two whole weeks since I began my incarceration (aside from my brief sojourn to the outside world). The hours seem to be passing by so quickly one moment, and then the next it slows to a tedious crawl, as the mundane regimentation of prison life threatens to overwhelm one’s persona and destroy the sense of self through the constraining effect prison has on the sphere of activities we all need to engage in to maintain the necessary aspects of being. Nevertheless, things have improved greatly in the past few days, due to a convoluted set of events I shall attempt to explain to you, my dearest diary.

It all began when visiting hour arrived on Friday. My good friends Nicole Ritchie and Donatella Versace were paying me a visit. Donatella looked fabulous, clad in a daring summer ensemble of turquoise thong and bejewelled cleavage-hugging bikini top that offset her healthy tangerine complexion beautifully. Nicole was a marked and appalling contrast. Without me by her side to serve as her thinspiration, she has gained two and a half pounds, putting on so much weight that she has even begun menstruating for the first time in two years. She broke down into tears, and despite my efforts, failed to mustre a smile for the duration of the visit.

My friends regaled me with tales of the LA early summer party season, and for a brief and glorious moment I felt as though I were free, cavorting in the midst of a mass of beautiful people at a premiere after-party, arms lifted skyward as I shook my hair from side to side with not a care that was ever known to man, challenging the world to join me on the peak of human experience. I came crashing back to reality, however, when a loud alarm rang out as my friends were heading for the exit and Donatella was suddenly set-upon by a mob of guards. There was a terrible confusion at the time, but it seems that the guards mistook Donatella’s leathery orange hide for regulation prison clothing… those horrible orange jumpsuits that I, mercifully, do not have to wear, thanks to a note from my physician detailing the needs of my sensitive skin. Before the guards could be told of their mistake, they had already leapt upon Donatella, sending her sprawling to the ground as a small plastic bag (containing what she insists was medicinal cocaine) went spinning from betwixt her cleavage and out onto the pale concrete floor for all to see.

In the scuffle, Nicole vanished, and as of yet I have no idea where she disappeared to. I would phone to enquire, but I used my daily call to finalise a deal with a newspaper to serialise my prison diary. Not this compendium of my innermost thoughts, but rather a cleaner and more sympathetic version compiled by my public relations guru Monique Sikozu-Wong. But I digress.

Using the quick wits that I am famed for, I managed to manipulate the guards into thinking that Donatella was a pre-existing prisoner, Donna “The Dealer” Duggan, a heroin fixer-upper with a penchant for pulling off her enemies’ fingernails with pliers, thus saving Donatella the embarrassment of a very public court action. Of course, this now means that Ms. Duggan will have her sentence extended for a misdemeanour not of her own doing, but I think I can live with the moral grey area this leaves me in by telling myself society is a better place with her behind bars. Donatella is currently hiding in my cell until we can find a way to smuggle her out of here. She has taken Daisy’s bed, and Daisy now sleeps on the floor; something she became enthusiastic about when I lied and told her that Renee Zellweger sleeps in that fashion to improve her posture. I hope the woman doesn’t discover I’ve never actually spoken to Renee Zellweger.

I expect the next few days to be devoid of the tedium I mentioned in the opening of this entry, as I plot my dear friend’s prison break. I wholeheartedly hope no one gets shot.

-Paris Hiltion, Imprisoned Heiress,
SoCal Correctional Institute For Naughty Ladies