The Tinkerbell Hilton Diaries

An except from the Tinkerbell Diaries (with kudos to dong resin):

Friday, August 13: I can't take the pink coats and "wee booties" that Paris dresses me in anymore. My very "dogness" is at issue here. It goes without saying that "the bitches" are not feeling my vibe. And how could they? Dogs are supposed to be naked. I am rapidly becoming an accessory here, like her goddamned Louis Vuitton bag. The recent burglary has made me a little dodgy about whether or not I want to be doing this for the rest of my dog years. It's like Rilke says, I must change my life.

Saturday, August 14: I've run away from Paris. I'm headed to Mexico to find my Chihuahua roots. As I write this with shivering paws, I am on the road, like Kerouac, and the soundtrack to my life has a crunk feel to it. I feel like Max Von Sydow in the Seventh Seal playing chess with death. Number 5 is alive!

Sunday, August 15: Shared a tin of Vienna sausages with a bitch I just met. She wanted it. So I made competent love to her, doggie-style. See, that's another thing I could never do with Paris Hilton around. While she was getting her freak on -- often -- I was locked in the $1500 doggie tote bag. Dogs have needs.

Monday, August 16: The time is short, and the interim is mine. My all possessing ambition is to attatch myself to Benji's entourage. "Benji the Hunted" influenced me deeply. Or maybe that Jack Russell terrier on Frasier. That's the life. Dog yummies and bitches. Mmmmmm. Didn't rapper Ice Cube say it best? "Life aint nothing but bitches and money." So true.

Tuesday, August 17: Narrowly avoided an unscheduled trip to the pound. The dogcatcher was out in rare today. I was rapping to a little bitch when the flow of my discourse was firmly arrested by a crudely crafted lasso that just narrowly missed my neck. Fuck. I ran as fast as I could but, as you know, chihuahua legs are short. I managed to duck into an empty tin of sardines, and the dogcatcher rushed by. The bitch was not so lucky.

Wednesday, August 18: That new writer on Gawker, Jessica Coen, suggested that I might be a gooey undiscovered ungent at the bottom of Paris' Louis Vuitton. Grrr. Frankly, though, life on its own terms is not quite what it's cracked up to be. Excepting the pussy, of course; Paris never looked out for my interests where that was concerned. I'm going back to collabo with Paris, Mexico be damned. Sure, the booties and the outfits are a serious insult to my doggie manliness. But, then, I got to go to some kick ass parties. And I never had to worry about dog catchers. But I'm too cute to be out to sleep. And I could use a doggie pedicure. That's hott.