Mein Kampf: Paris Hilton's Prison Diary, Day 9

June 13th 2007

Dear Diary,

What a tumultuous few days it has been. I shall endeavour to recount everything that has happened in the past week, but my head is still spinning from it all, and I may forget minor details.

It all began, as whirlwind events are wont to, with a simple misunderstanding. Upon receiving my first meal in prison I, naturally enough, presumed that it was only the first of four to five courses. Based on the presumption, that further courses would follow, I ate only the barest smidgeon of the unappetising meal laid in front of me, hoping for something with a little more piquance to come, and did my best not to look too disgusted as I observed Daisy gorge her already bloated 60lb frame on the colourful assemblage of pulses and entrails. (A digression: I cannot help but ponder why I have taken to writing in UK English. Most perplexing.) When further courses failed to materialise, I briefly pondered making an enquiry into what had happened (Daisy was at this point asleep, thanks in no small part to my smacking her across the side of the head with my copy of Dostoyevsky until she slipped into unconsciousness, all the better for me to concentrate on the Russian literary master’s opus) until I decided it was best not to rock the boat, particularly with Bulldog Baker’s interest in me weighing heavily on my mind. Ms. Bulldog persists in her antics; she has been blowing kisses in an attempt to unnerve me and continues to make lewd gestures with her baton. I refuse to rise to the bait, and maintain stoic indifference in the face of her provocation. I may not be British, but I greatly admire the stiff upper lip approach to dealing with one’s adversaries, and I shall continue to emulate Winston Churchill et al in my dealings with Baker. But I digress, and return to the matter of recent events.

The day after the incident with the meal, I again found myself presented with a less than inspired choice of appertif, and again refused to partake of it. Afterwards, I was less than amused when further courses were not forthcoming once more, and asked Daisy (who was maintaining a pleasant silence for fear of receiving another battering) if the service was always so inconsistent and poor. I was shocked to learn that when in prison, one receives only one meal, and realised that my ignorance had cost me two days worth of necessary nutrients and nourishment. Alas, my behaviour was interpreted as a refusal to eat by the powers that be, who immediately acted in my best interests and arranged for my release into house arrest, where it was felt my frame of mind would become more amiable and that I would begin eating again. I found myself caught up in the maelstrom of events; before I knew what was happening, I was at home, and even before I had time to settle back into my routine and become accustomed to my newly fitted anklet monitoring device, I was back in prison again.

It has all been rather disorienting, but I am glad the matter has been resolved. I do find it rather bothersome when my schedule is in flux, and now that I know I will be serving my time in prison, I am content to do so. I have been returned to the cell I shared with Daisy. She seemed unhappy with my return, and cowered in fear in a corner for several minutes until, feeling sorry for her, my conscience got the better of me and I shared an anecdote concerning her idol Renee Zellweger and a Burmese long-haired shrew. This proved to be something of a mistake, as she has been nattering without end about her plans to adopt one of her own, name it Renee and enter it in rodent beauty pageant. It seems likely that I shall have to resort to binding and gagging her yet again, but for now I am just too tired. Nichole and Donatella visit tomorrow, and I hope to update my diary of prison life with whatever tales they bring from the showbiz circuit. And if Donatella can sneak in some cocaine, I might be able to purchase favour with some of the guards.

-Paris Hilton
SoCal Correctional Institute For Naughty Ladies