For some God-awful reason, Esquire decided to profile Paris Hilton in their May issue devoted to women. I haven’t paid attention to Paris in a while, only catching up on her antics as I skimmed stories for the links. I know she and Doug Reinhardt finally broke up, and I know that they’re now fighting about who did the dumping and who had more to gain from the relationship. So, basically, I’m reading this Paris profile without feeling the heavy nausea that I feel when I’m reading about someone like, say, Tila Tequila. Paris seems almost quaint compared to many of the f-cking train wrecks operating in Celebrity-ville today. However, even though I went into this wanting to give Paris the benefit of the doubt, I realized that Paris is still the same old moron. But it’s comforting, on some level. The complete Esquire piece is here (it’s a slideshow with interview excerpts), but here are some of the highlights:

Three days and nights in Parisworld is an experience like few others, and not in a bad way, either. It confirmed what we have always believed — the best stories happen when subjects let us in. It began with a blind e-mail contact, a week of back and forth, a trial meeting — the father looked me over pretty good before the okay was given. It ended on a windy night in her boudoir, the balcony doors thrown open. And then, before you knew it, it was over.

Paris Hilton opens her house and speaks of everything: Her sex tape (“I was humiliated. There were people who thought I released it myself.”), her “reckless driving” (on an empty stomach on her way to In-N-Out), the bogus photo-shopped pudenda scandal (“Ewww. I always wear underwear.”) — and along the way demonstrates how easy it is for a real person to be turned into a cartoon character. Is it possible there’s something about Paris Hilton that we’ve missed?

The tour begins, cordially enough, in the drawing room of her house. There are pictures, images, likenesses everywhere. Many are of Paris herself — only the hottest justify display. Many are of Paris and her friends. Paris and Mariah. Paris and Jessica. Paris and Carmen. Paris and Fergie. Paris and Nicole and Nicky, each of them in its own fun frame.

Paris only rarely employs her well-known baby-sexpot voice. (“I talk like that when I’m nervous,” she will later say.) When the producers signed up Paris for The Simple Life, she says they gave her these acting notes: “Paris, be the dumbest you can be. Just be a dumb, ditzy blonde — like Legally Blonde meets Green Acres meets Clueless.” BFF Nicole Richie, her sidekick, was told to be the mean one. BTW, they are friends again. “That whole fight was engineered by the producers,” Paris says unconvincingly, the only time that I feel she is being less than honest.

“My house is kind of like a reflection of my life and my accomplishments and what I’ve done,” Paris says in her serious voice. “And I’ve done it all on my own. When my parents and my grandfather came over for the first time, I was so proud. It just feels good to like walk around and be like … I earned all this, you know? I see some of my friends I grew up with from rich families. Their parents spoiled them and they never made them work and just give them an allowance. And now they’re like 30 and still living off the parents, having to ask for everything, being on a budget. It’s nice to feel accomplished and independent. I don’t have to depend on anyone but myself.”

It was here, in the living room, where Paris spoke about the reckless driving arrest that led to her infamous incarceration: “It wasn’t even a DUI, that was not why I was in jail. That’s why I was charged with reckless driving. It was literally three sips of a margarita at dinner after I had just shot my music video — I hadn’t really eaten anything all day and I showed up to the dinner late because I was shooting the music video. And then, like two blocks away from In-N-Out burger, is where I got pulled over. I just thought it was really unfair.”

Paris’s assortment of pink two-wheeled conveyances, including a pink scooter, a pink mountain bike, a pink beach cruiser, and a pink Harley Davidson mini. Girlish? Princess-like? Absolutely. On her signature pink Bentley, Paris has this to say: “It’s a little too showy to drive it anywhere, unfortunately.” The inside is custom decorated with Swarovski crystal.

Before we went to lunch at the Ivy, Paris felt as if her car was too dirty to drive, so she hosed it off herself. On the way home out of the restaurant, we were surrounded by paparazzi. A chase ensued through Beverly Hills: She set her jaw, blared Madonna’s “Like a Virgin,” and gunned the throaty blue Bentley convertible, weaving through traffic, making it into a little game. There was no anger evident; it was more like sport.

She does not seem to be one of those celebs who complains about the very system that got her here in the first place — though she could do without the helicopters hovering over her place when she’s trying to lay out at her own pool. At times, her celebrity is frightening even to her.

[From Esquire]

My favorite part was “And I’ve done it all on my own… It just feels good to like walk around and be like … I earned all this, you know? I see some of my friends I grew up with from rich families. Their parents spoiled them and they never made them work and just give them an allowance…It’s nice to feel accomplished and independent. I don’t have to depend on anyone but myself.” Especially given this note: “She does not seem to be one of those celebs who complains about the very system that got her here in the first place.. At times, her celebrity is frightening even to her.” All of this, and she doesn’t do anything! She has no talent. She’s not an actress, not a singer, not a writer, not even a current reality star. What is she so proud of achieving again? That people pay her to show up at parties? Really? And that gives her a sense of “accomplishment and independence.” Ugh. Same old Paris.

Esquire has a bunch of photos of Paris’s house too. It’s startling how many photos of herself she has throughout her house.

Photos of Paris & her home courtesy of Esquire.