Paris Hilton is a Robot.
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I worry about my daughter. I named her after Paris Hilton, because when I was younger I just loved The Simple Life. It was either Paris or Nicole, and I never really liked that weird midget child.
No, for me it was always Paris, if only I could have been as beautiful and as vapid as the princess of... what is it she does again? Oh it doesn't matter, she doesn't need talent, she's perfect enough as she is.
I hoped my daughter, my Paris (let's call her Paris Mk2), would one day grow up to be as empty headed as Miss Hilton. If that was true then she would never leave my side, and I would never get lonely. She could be my precious little doll forever.
She didn't want to though. Instead she grew wilful and disobedient. She became a real bitch. Such a shame, she was such a cute little girl. She had dark hair when she was younger, which simply wouldn't do. I was so pleased, when almost over night it turned a shining bleach blonde, a colour that's almost never seen outside of a bottle.
When she was eight she asked me if she could learn to play chess, of course I nipped that in bud. I told her she could either learn to play chess, or she could keep her pet rabbit. When I caught her reading about Modern Benoni and Grunfeld, I dragged her into to the garden and made her watch as I slit Peter's throat. She never did use the board I bought her for Christmas.
She sits in the corner of the room, staring at me. Those wide eyes, the same expression she had then. Only this time she's perfectly silent. I think she's mad with me again. We fought, because she wanted to go to university in Scotland. Scotland is no place for such a beautiful girl, she's be so far away. How could I look at her? How could I love her if she was in another country?
It doesn't matter any more. She's definitely not going, not my little girl. She's just going to sit in here with me, even if I have to put up with the dreaful mood she's in.
She's still my little girl. Made up of my blood, sweat, sodium hydrochloride, hydrogen peroxide, formaldehyde, methanol, ethanol, glutaraldehyde, water conditioner, cell conditioner, dyes (active and inactive), humectants, anti-edemic chemicals, disinfectants and cavity fluids.
I worry about my daughter. I named her after Paris Hilton, because when I was younger I just loved The Simple Life. It was either Paris or Nicole, and I never really liked that weird midget child.
No, for me it was always Paris, if only I could have been as beautiful and as vapid as the princess of... what is it she does again? Oh it doesn't matter, she doesn't need talent, she's perfect enough as she is.
I hoped my daughter, my Paris (let's call her Paris Mk2), would one day grow up to be as empty headed as Miss Hilton. If that was true then she would never leave my side, and I would never get lonely. She could be my precious little doll forever.
She didn't want to though. Instead she grew wilful and disobedient. She became a real bitch. Such a shame, she was such a cute little girl. She had dark hair when she was younger, which simply wouldn't do. I was so pleased, when almost over night it turned a shining bleach blonde, a colour that's almost never seen outside of a bottle.
When she was eight she asked me if she could learn to play chess, of course I nipped that in bud. I told her she could either learn to play chess, or she could keep her pet rabbit. When I caught her reading about Modern Benoni and Grunfeld, I dragged her into to the garden and made her watch as I slit Peter's throat. She never did use the board I bought her for Christmas.
She sits in the corner of the room, staring at me. Those wide eyes, the same expression she had then. Only this time she's perfectly silent. I think she's mad with me again. We fought, because she wanted to go to university in Scotland. Scotland is no place for such a beautiful girl, she's be so far away. How could I look at her? How could I love her if she was in another country?
It doesn't matter any more. She's definitely not going, not my little girl. She's just going to sit in here with me, even if I have to put up with the dreaful mood she's in.
She's still my little girl. Made up of my blood, sweat, sodium hydrochloride, hydrogen peroxide, formaldehyde, methanol, ethanol, glutaraldehyde, water conditioner, cell conditioner, dyes (active and inactive), humectants, anti-edemic chemicals, disinfectants and cavity fluids.