two-twenty

you — not i — will always have paris | joanna

On December 31st, 2005, I resolved that for twelve months, Paris Hilton would not exist for me. It was not as easy to pull off as I thought it would be.

It didn't matter that I lived more than half the year abroad, often without access to the internet. I had to force myself to cover up her photo in the Herald Tribune's People column a few times. I had to cover my ears, sometimes figuratively, occasionally literally, when people gossiped about her seemingly constant string of antics. During a particularly dicey drive from Tuscany to Rome, I had to switch radio stations five times in two hours. It would have been six, but I didn't know that she was singing the first time Ash and I heard her song. It was a catchy song.

Yesterday Ash told me about her latest public modeling session in Sydney, and how fashionistas on the Vogue.com.au site are questioning her LV-sprinkled bikini's authenticity. I finally looked at the pictures today.

I don't care at all. About the swimsuit's provenance, about her trip to Sydney, about anything that she does, anywhere.

Not to sound surly — or surlier than I feel — but I no longer have any interest in the rest of them, either. Lindsay and Tara, Ashlee and Jessica. I can't help myself when it comes to Nicole Ritchie, but that might be because I think the chick has a personality.

It's a relief to be able to say her name, to write it. Paris Hilton. But it feels dirty, in the bad way. And though as of January 1st, I'm off the hook from my own decision, this is probably the last thing I think or have to say about... um... her.