Instead of getting into Lady Gaga‘s
“ARTPOP film” video for “G.U.Y.” and all the Real Housewives bullshit that dwells within, let me tell you about the most fucked up celebrity dream I’ve ever had in all my years writing this site and that’s coming off of an least three year run where I’m back in college banging Paris Hilton. Always Paris Hilton… It happened Saturday night, and for all intents and purposes, I’m not even sure I’m the same person anymore or ever will be.
I’m front row at a Lady Gaga concert, so right away, nightmare. Pure fucking nightmare. What happens next is what I get for watching her tit get puked on: She starts walking over the audience on giant stilts and pretends to shit out those giant, uncooked tubes of raw sausages you see at butcher’s shop, so interpret that however you like because I’ve already settled on an unrequited love for Photo Boy meets brain tumor. Naturally, or unnaturally based on the ending of that last sentence, I start flipping out. Which doesn’t sit well with her because it turns out we’re dating, and now I’m on the end of an hysterical phone call about how I don’t “respect her art” which is when my brain decides it’s time to wake up. Not from the nightmare of getting raw sausage shat on my face by Lady GaGa, but from the unparalleled torture of listening to an emotional woman. That’s the hitting the pavement moment. This is what this job has done to my mind, so I hope you bastards are hap- oh god, now I’m the woman! *jumps out window*