The cute Jamaican bellboy just delivered our room service (They seem rather understaffed don't you think?). I didn't even have my eyes open yet but I could hear his accent.

I hate the fact that we are contributing to Paris Hilton's pocket money.

I still remember my uncle boasting yesterday how he likes to go to Forest Lawn early in the morning to photograph, alone. The point is, if I die I would love to be buried in the Forest Lawn cemetery. It's so beautiful there wouldn't be any vengeful spirits anyhow, so how could it be scary?