After prolonged immersion into their natural habitat, I am under the distinct impression that human beings function socially through a sort of personality grocery list. Upon request, most can spout off qualities they value in others: kindness, humor, loyalty, defendable positions on coffee. Each trait has a significance value assigned to it, and in order to admire or befriend someone, he or she must break par.
Until recently, I took this mode of functioning for granted, thinking yes, I too value nice, funny, french-press owners.
My turning point came in the form of a hot-pink mini-skirt precariously perched on the razorblade hips of heiress Paris Hilton.
I love Paris Hilton.
That confession may seem reasonable enough. But the realization brought into question everything I believed to be true about myself. What is there for Emma Sartwell to find so instantaneously seductive about the costar of Foxπs (Foxπs!) ≥The Simple Life,≤ showcasing the failed attempts of two blonde heiresses (famous for being famous, in the most post-modern sense) to work, walk, and not exploit innocent people?
It seemed that after almost two decades, I was finally being brainwashed by my television. I began feverishly tracking this curious phenomenon.
As soon as I undertook this fruitless endeavor, however, I realized that there were just too many discrepancies. Disappointingly, I had not begun to see perfection embodied in thoughtless nymphets with million-dollar sunglasses. In fact, I hated them all. Except Paris.
But if it wasnπt her vacant giggle and it wasnπt her salmon skin and it wasnπt her visible ribcage or her nipple tape or her impressive ability to walk in transparent, five-inch heels, what the hell was it?

I realized that I do not have, and do not want, a social grocery list. I have one point of reference, and one only: sincerity.
In all likelihood, Paris Hilton is not a sincere human being. But something about the boundless flaunting of her unenhanced chest and the shameless flirtations with teenaged boys endear me. Hiltonπs opinions could very well be based in a lack of significant thought and analysis, but when Paris points at something and declares, ≥Thatπs hot!≤, I believe she is being sincere, and I canπt get enough.
Paris has assisted me in blasting through some of my utter confusion when it comes to all of those people outside of my head. There are always those people you feel guilty for disliking, because intellectually you do. This person is endlessly nice and knowledgeable, you tell yourself. This person makes par. Why donπt I care about them? Lack of Paris. And vise versa, thereπs always those magnetic personalities who throw temper tantrums and havenπt read a book in their lives. And why are we attracted to them? Because the tantrums lack affect; they are unjaded, uneditted expressions of something as potentially inexplicable as emotion. Itπs refreshing.
The Paris Philosophy can be applied to anything.
Artwork.
A painter could spend five years creating an idealistic, perfectly-detailed forest vignette and Iπll prefer my five-year-old sisterπs marker drawing of orange trees with purple leaves. Because she does not yet know why or how to exploit affect. But this example may seem too obvious.
Bob Ross. Bob Ross slathers on affect like sunscreen. Hang a Bob Ross next to any painting from any hotel room in Ocean City and they would be interchangeable. I would tell you I violently loathed them both, from the dappled ocean froth to the preconcieved representation of a reflection of the sun comprised entirely of horizontal yellow lines. (Making seagulls with vs particularly infuriates me. No longer is the painting a represention of visual stimuli; it is using a widely accepted symbol to convey an idea. There is a word for conveying ideas with symbols: writing. I deeply wish these brilliant artisans would simply write ≥bird≤ a few times above their pale green seascapes.) But tell me that one of the two pieces is a Bob Ross, and Iπll love it. Because Bob sincerely adores affect. He is unaffected, unashamed, and utterly contrived.
That said, Iπm not about to claim that there I will cling to anything as long as it is sincere. If you are unhesitantly sincere in the belief that we should all go around hitting children with sticks, for example, chances are, I wonπt like you. The Paris Philosophy is fallible.
But sheπs always there somewhere.
I guess pragmatically, I would like a world full of kind, giving human beings who donπt hit children with sticks, not matter how they came to be the kind, giving human beings who donπt hit children with sticks. But most of me feels very strongly that I would rather have a world full of sincerely inconsiderate Nicole Richies or sincerely oblivious Paris Hiltons than a world of niceties which can be attributed to expectations.
Thatπs hot.