When you’re like me and suffer from SBD (Sunday Blues Syndrome) usually the only thing that can possibly help is poetry. For the past hour, I’ve been crying over THIS SHIT (OMG) but considering the whole Internet is fawning over this man, perhaps I ought to make people branch out a little. Below is my good friend (and sometimes-subject) Matthue Roth’s poem, “The Other Universe of Paris Hilton.” Cheer up, Charlie.
There’s an alternate universe
where Paris Hilton has her shit together
and I’m a drunken heiress.
I show up fashionably late
to her party, having already
knocked back a few
and knocked out her bartender.
The reason why escapes me
but it would have been a great story
if you were there.
And, in this case
“fashionably late” means 5 a.m.,
Too late for the last guests to appreciate me
but not too late
for them to catch shards of glass
from the falling crystal
I crash into
on their way out.
I’m shaking my head,
crying all over the ruins
of the party
tasting salty vodka tears.
“Dammit,” I sniffle
“it isn’t fair.
I fucked up again
kissed Prince’s girlfriend at the afterparty
had a drunken orgy
with Christina Ricci
and 2 former Spice Girls
traded one of my six Swiss
bank accounts for coke
and did it off the roof
of my Hum-V
clocking ninety
off the chest of this underage nymphet.”
Then I proceed to lurch
a souvenir of the evening
all over the Persian rug
that Paris worked
285 shifts at Wal-Mart
to pay for.
Luckily,
she doesn’t notice.
She’s by the medicine cabinet
with an ace bandage,
Neosporin,
and some orange juice.
“Don’t worry,”
she consoles me,
“in another world
you’re an Orthodox Jew.
You pray to G-d constantly
You never break anyone’s heart
Girls don’t only want you for your body
People call to confide in you
at six in the morning
and you never, ever
get laid.”
“So in this other universe,” I say,
“what are you?”
“Oh,” says Paris,
brushing away a tear,
“don’t concern yourself
with that.”
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