I think I'm Paris Hilton...

...and it is a problem. No, I don't think I'm Paris in that I would ever date a Backstreet Boy (that dream died in the 6th grade), nor would I ever make a sex tape. But I do think I'm Paris Hilton in that I don't like repeating my outfits, and because of this, have packed way too much clothing into a way too small bag for Italy. Note to self: I am not an heiress, and I do not need 15 (00) pairs of shoes to study abroad. I am actually going to sacrifice towels and sheets to make room for my clothing. I guess I'll be forced to dry off naked after my shower...maybe I'm more like Paris after all. 

Though I do recognize my penchant for Paris as a problem, it isn't something I'm willing to change just now. I  love clothing too much. I can't help myself. I want to, have to, pack a ridiculous amount of beautiful clothing, even if it isn't practical and is probably too fancy for backpacking. Now for the cheese. Clothing, to me, is full of emotions and meanings. Just the other day I saw a top in Rebecca Taylor-sheer, black, looked like it could float, with little tiny silver sequins sprinkled on the chest, and with a silk, black camisole underneath. It looks like stars in the midnight sky. If love was a piece of clothing, this would be it.