Paris: A Memoir for Young Women in the Age of Influencers

by Paris Hilton

Dr. Edward Hallowell, author of Driven to Distraction, says the ADHD brain is like a Ferrari with bicycle brakes: powerful but difficult to control.

“unicorn trot”: not fully running, more graceful than galloping, and less like skipping than dancing. I have a hard time going slow.

This crowd. Oh, my god. Energy. Love. Light. Unbreakable spirit.

I’m behind the board. It’s like piloting a spaceship full of the coolest people in the galaxy. My set is structured around iconic music like “Toxic” alongside a sick BeatBreaker remix of “Genie in a Bottle” by Xtina, Queen of the Night, plus a lot of other dope originals and remixes, which I should put up on the podcast or YouTube, because this set is so much fun.

Now I’m home with my loves: Diamond Baby, Slivington, Crypto, Ether, and Harajuku Bitch, the OG chihuahua.

She’s twenty-two years old. Multiply that by seven dog years; she’s literally 154! She sleeps twenty-three hours a day and looks like Gizmo from Gremlins, but she’s still here living her best life.

Skin care. Seriously. If you take nothing else from my story, receive this: Skin care is sacred.

ADHD is exhausting and exhilarating, and it’s how God made me, so it must be right.

ADHD can be a wellspring of creative energy, but creative energy’s evil twin is a troublemaking compulsion. Want some adrenaline? Do everything the hard way. Get into train-wreck relationships. There are a million ways to screw yourself over for the sake of adrenaline. My imagination is infinite, but it takes me to dark places as easily as it takes me toward the light. Dr. Hallowell calls it the Demon, that snake that slithers into everything telling you that if it’s bad you deserve it and if it’s good it won’t last. Of course, the Demon is a liar, but try telling that to my brain when it’s craving a big bucket of deep-fried anxiety.

Never regret anything, because at one time it was exactly what you wanted. MARILYN MONROE

The marriage ended bitterly, and Conrad decided it was better to raise the boys himself. He brought them up with old-school Christian values, making them work as bellhops and teaching them that work and family are jealous gods who will always be at war, fighting for a man’s time and complete devotion.

But I am a Hilton, and that’s huge. Here’s me, acknowledging how blessed and lucky I am, okay? My family has been called “American royalty.”

I’m not downplaying the

extraordinary privilege or the access it gave me. Experiences. Travel. Opportunities. I...

The Barron Hilton family is huge, and we flock together, loving each other and minding each other’s business, even though we don’t se...

When we were little, Nicky and I adventured around Brooklawn with our million cousins, climbing fences and playing kickball on the lush green lawn. Parties at Brooklawn were like full-on carnival events, with pony rides, petting zoos, bouncy castles, tennis tournaments, and Marco Polo death matches in the gigantic pool, which featured an elaborate mosaic—imported Italian tile depicting the signs of the zodiac. I’m an Aquarius, so I thought I should be the one that looked kind of like a mermaid, but that turned out to be Virgo. Aquarius was a beefy-looking dude with a jug of water on his shoulder. I probably cried when ...

My parents, Rick and Kathy Hilton, spent the 1970s partying with Andy Warhol and the hippest possible crowds from Studio City to Studio 54. My dad is in real estate and finance, the cofounder of Hilton & Hyland, a massive firm spe...

My parents did a lot of entertaining related to his business, and when Mom has a party, she plans it down to the last rose petal, all the little things that make her guests feel like they’re part of somethin...

True sophistication is the ability to fit in anywhere because you have a broad understanding of and respect for all kinds of people.

As little girls, Nicky and I attended super chic social functions, fundraising events, holiday galas, and fancy receptions at the Waldorf or the Met, where my parents mixed with lawyers, agents, politicos, and all kinds of extraordinary people who did big things.

One of my earliest memories is sitting on Andy Warhol’s lap, drawing pictures at an after-party at the Waldorf-Astoria. He loved me and always told my mom, “This kid is going to be a huge star.”

I love that my parents included us in all that. You might think fancy business and social events would be boring for a little kid, but I lived for those parties. I learned to appreciate the architecture of a good ball gown. I was exposed to great music: jazz combos, string quartets, and private performances by famous artists. I sat like a butterfly on a fence, eavesdropping on adult conversations about corporate maneuvers, real estate deals, fortunes being made and lost, ill-advised love affairs, and messy divor...

In my early teens, I took advantage of every sneak-out opportunity I could create. I became one of those Desperately Seeking Susan club kids who ruled the nighttime world in the early nineties.

the key elements of partying like a rock star:

Stay hydrated.

Stay pretty (tipsy can be cute, but dr...

Wear boots—like good, sturdy platform boots—and comfortable clothes so you can dance all night and easily climb in and/or out of windows and over fences as needed. I didn’t drink or do drugs back then. When I was a kid, fun was the only party drug I needed. I wasn’t there to get wasted; I was there to dance. Alcohol and drugs are for escaping reality, and I wanted all the reality I could get. The escape drinking didn’t happen until later. One night after the Pia Zadora club adventure, I tried to smuggle Nicky, our cousin Farrah, and our friend Khloé Kardashian into Bar One. Khloé and Farrah were little middle school girls, so I did Khloé up with full makeup, a long red wig, and a floppy black hat. I told her, “If anyone asks, your name is Betsey Johnson.” I put Farrah on top of somebody’s shoulders with a big trench coat. We put so much effort into our disguises, we were shocked when we didn’t get past the velvet rope. “I guess you need to be with someone famous,” I said. I didn’t like how it felt to be rejected in front of everyone. I wasn’t going to let it happen again. When I was sixteen, I hooked up fake IDs for Nicky and me. We weren’t fooling anyone, but we were getting a ...

Club music of the early aughts was made for raging: Chemical Brothers, “Star Guitar” Depeche Mode, “Freelove” DJ Disciple, “Caught Up” featuring Mia Cox Funky Green Dogs, “You Got Me (Burnin’ Up)” I also had to have my soul song: Ultra Naté, “Free.”

THIS DOOR MUST REMAIN CLOSED But now this door is open. I’m on this bench behind some other people, and every time someone jumps, everyone else scoots forward. Someone jumps.

Conrad Hilton was a religious man. He wrote a lot about God. Feared God. Wanted to know God. Craved God. He should have gone skydiving.

The sky was crystal-blue perfection. The distant mountains were wrinkled yellow and ocher, iced with midwinter snow. The wide-open desert gave up a thousand shades of gray, sliced with highways, dotted with boxy little structures. The insignificance of anyone who’d ever loved or hurt me. The insignificance of myself. There was no audience to play for. Only profound peace. A state of grace. We descended, riding the wind, borne on soaring updrafts. Gratitude.

THIS DOOR MUST REMAIN CLOSED Brace yourselves, bitches. We’re about to pry it open.

I had a whole community of rats named after all the people from 90210: Luke, Tori, Jason, Shannen, Brian, Ian, Jennie, Tiffani, and Gabrielle.

I had a huge rat named Max who had enormous balls. One day when I was out in the yard cuddling Max, a ferret ran over to me, and poor Max screamed this bizarrely loud scream with his little rat mouth wide open, and then he bit me. I dropped him, and he ran off, waddling up the driveway as fast as he could with his weirdly large balls bouncing away. I started crying, not because I was hurt but because I thought I’d lost him. “Max! Max!” I sat down on the driveway, sobbing. Max looked over his shoulder at me and came waddling back. I scooped him up in my arms and kissed him and told him I wasn’t mad. He seemed deeply embarrassed about the whole incident. Rats are so sweet. I should get another rat.

At some point, I heard Nicky say “That’s hot” and it resonated with me.

Toss a spark of positivity into the world.

It’s like “I see you”—but hotter.

My dad traveled a lot for business, and my parents don’t sleep apart. To this day, if he goes, she goes. So, we traveled a lot as a family, or Mom would travel with Dad while Aunt Kyle looked after us, which was great because Kyle always encouraged Nicky and me to invite friends over.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is there anywhere we can get a cab? There’s like a million people waiting in line.” The cop shined his light on me and said, “How old are you?” “Twenty-one.” We didn’t miss a beat. He folded his arms. “Show me your ID.” “I don’t have it on me,” I said. “I lost it.” “What’s your name?” “Jennifer Pearlstein,” I said. “This is my friend Leslie.” “How old are you, Jennifer?” “I told you! Twenty-one!” “No, you’re not.” “Eighteen?” “You are not eighteen,” he said, “and it’s illegal for you be out on the Strip after nine. There’s a curfew. You want to get arrested? I should arrest you right now.” Nicole and I insisted we were so eighteen and just in town on business, but the cop wasn’t having it. He ordered us into the back of the cop car, and we sat there like, Holy crap! What do we do? What do we do? while he stood on the corner, talking into his shoulder radio. We waited for a long time. It seemed like two hours, so it was probably about fifteen minutes in real time. Nicole and I whispered back and forth, getting our story straight, planning a strategy. Then the cop opened the car door and Nicole blurted out, “Her name is Paris Hilton! We’re staying at the Las Vegas Hilton! Her mom is Kathy Hilton!” “Nicole.” I elbowed her. “Oh, my god.” “We’re so sorry, officer. We didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Nicole said. She gave him my mom’s phone number, and a little while later, my dad showed up to collect us. All the way back to the hotel, he yelled at us, as...

Nicole Richie and I were ride or die from our terrible twos, and we’ll stay that way until the world ends.

One of our favorite activities was making prank calls, which we learned from the prank-calling GOAT: my mom. Mom can disguise her voice and make you think a delivery

But it’s problematic when girls go into that exploratory phase feeling secretive and ill informed. If the message you send is “We don’t talk about such things,” then—guess what!—your kids move toward adulthood with the idea that being an adult means keeping secrets. The nuns didn’t teach us anything about reproductive health in biology class. We certainly didn’t cover Lolita in English class. Mom didn’t talk about things that fell into nebulous categories like “private” and “dirty.” I learned the basics from feminine-hygiene ads in Seventeen. My understanding of sexuality was a fog machine of Madonna videos, Calvin Klein commercials, and a vaguely naughty impulse that made me feel the same sting of guilt I felt when I swiped a tube of lip gloss from Mom’s purse.

But obviously, this is fine like hot. Like sexy. I was the sexiest of the eighth-grade girls! Because sexy eighth grader—that’s a thing, right?

I was fine with being “Finest Girl.” I leaned into that.

But he chose me. The Finest Girl. “I’ve got a crush on you,” he said, flashing a flirty smile.

He made me feel noticed in an important, grown-up way. He flattered and teased me and said that all the other girls were talking about me behind my back because they were jealous. Jealous of my hotness. Because their boyfriends probably wanted to break up with them the second I walked into the room. He asked for my private phone number and cautioned me not to tell anyone.

“It’s our secret,” he said, and I kept that secret like candy under my pillow. I never felt like I was being manipulated. I felt like I was being worshipped. I was Marilyn Monroe waiting to happen. He couldn’t...

Mr. Abercrombie called me almost every night, and we talked for hours about how amazingly mature, beautiful, and intelligent I was, how sensual, misunderstood, and special. He reminded me that Princess Diana was thirteen years younger than Prince Charles. And Priscilla Presley was my age when Elvis fell in love with her. I deserved a rock star. I deserved a prince. Because I was a princess. I deserved to be cherished and loved in a way eighth-grade boys know nothing about.

Mr. Abercrombie made me believe that I was rare and precious, and you know what? I was. Every eighth-grade girl is rare and precious. Every eighth-grade girl is a treasure, like a priceless work of art, so you’d like to think that every eighth-grade teacher will be like a security guard in an art gallery. He’s not there to enjoy the beauty; he’s there to protect it. He’s there to enforce the rules, and Rule Number One is: DO. NOT. TOUCH. Keep your fingers, lips, and man bits off the masterpieces. It should be obvious that the Girl with a Pearl Earring deserves a chance to smile her wistful smile without some creepy guy feeling her up. Because damage to that precious work of art can be hidden, but it can never be undone. My teacher asked me almost every night, “Are your parents home?” One night when they were out, I said, “No, it’s just the nanny.” “Come outside,” he said. “I’m waiting for you.” I threw on sneakers, climbed out my bedroom window, and slid down the drainpipe. Night air filled my lungs, along with the smell of mown grass and gardenias. I saw a late-model SUV idling at the top of the driveway. I climbed into the passenger seat. Teacher pulled me into his arms and kissed me. The intensity of it stunned and delighted me. My brain lit up, flush with adrenaline, curiosity, and a host of feelings I couldn’t even name. This terrifying blissful kissing went on for what seemed like a long time and seemed to be evolving into something more. I don’t know where he would ...

I giggled. Nervous. Heart pounding. Ears ringing. Oh, my god! I wasn’t wearing a seat belt! This was like Bonnie and Clyde! “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Mr. Abercrombie sounded like he was crying. “My life is over. What am I doing? Why did you make me do this?”