Sunday Blues

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.


she doesn’t notice.

She’s by the medicine cabinet

with an ace bandage,


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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