This is exactly—exactly—why I never let strangers find out I’m having a party.
Obviously, unlike Paris Hilton’s parties, my parties don’t involve me leaving my six-million-dollar mansion unmanned while I snort champagne in another state or whatever, but the principle is the same. Word gets out about your party, things get weird.
For instance, I once thought it’d be smart to circumvent potential noise complaints by inviting all the neighbors over for my birthday. I barely knew them, but I figured they wouldn’t show up, and so what if they did—it was worth a few beers and some Chex Mix to keep them from calling the cops.
Only they definitely did show up, lots of them, and some brought friends. Weird, drunk, malodorous friends. And the guy who lived next door made a legend of our guest bathroom, even though he could probably see his own toilet from where he was sitting, and as a result we had to let people parade through the master bedroom for the rest of the night and use the ensuite.
I don’t like guests parading through my bedroom. They look at my shoes and probably draw unfair conclusions about my snowglobes. They were a gift! [Ed note: “Look at these dumb snowglobes! I bet you could barely fit an episode of Nurse Jackie in there, much less the entire series run of St. Elsewhere.”]
Anyway, we still ended up with a noise complaint.
I guess I should count my blessings, because when people see my shoes they’re like, “Huh, you have kind of a lot of shoes,” and when people see Paris Hilton’s shoes they’re like, “I’m taking all your shoes.” Then they probably make their own little legend of her closet while they’re in there. There’s no mention in the Bling Ring trailer of anyone pooping in Paris Hilton’s closet, but I’m making an inference and I’m probably right. I bet it was Hermione. [Ed note: In her defense, she thought she was in Voldemort’s closet. There were Horcruxes everywhere!]