Here is the story that I promised a few days ago, called, "BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG DICK IN MY ASS." It's a true story, too. It really should have followed my celebrity post but I am in the midst of midterms and didn't have time. This took place around the same time that I was being super-cool and hanging out with B-list celebrities. (Well, A-list to Ruca)

So anyway, on the peripheries of my little world was a guy about my age, we will call him Patrick. Patrick came from the suburbs of Philly, and was a nice young man at the age of 18. He had a girlfriend and cooked and worked as a busser or waiter in some resturant. He came to NYC to go to college; he wanted to be a screenwriter. Now, Patrick wasn't a Prada-wearing status whore or anything, he wore shirts from his old job almost every day. Typical dork.

Then one day he was going to a college party at my friends dorm with one our other friends, who was a certified starfucker and B-list celeb. For some reason they couldn't get in to the part, and the starfucker suggested that they go to Moomba (which at the time was a notorious celebrity and model hang-out). Patrick freaked out.

After that night he was irevocibly changed. He never wanted to hang out with his NYU friends, he only wanted to go out to where celebrities were. He stopped wearing his ratty old t-shirts, and tried to get "cool" clothes. PATRICK HAD BEEN BLINDED BY THE MAGIC. Nothing would ever be the same.

Soon after this, Michael Stipe started hitting on him. Like, overtly, and all the time. Patrick wasn't gay, but he was an REM fan. He thought Michael Stipe would read his screenplays and help him make it in "the biz". Eventually (but not as long as you'd think), Patrick became Michael Stipe's bitch-boy. When Michael was in town he would call Patrick at 4 or 5am and make him wake up and come to his hotel room to service him. It became more and more outrageous, he would come out to karaoke still, and would be sitting on Michael Stipe's lap, looking ashamed.

Michael, of course, never read Patrick's screen plays. When Patrick finally got dumped, all he had to show for being butt-fucked was a photo album of himself with all the celebrities that Michael had introduced him to. He stopped coming out to Moomba and karaoke. Patrick called up his old high school sweetheart and got back together with her. I think that ending may have been anti-climatic, but I guess the moral is, don't take in the butt unless you like it, cuz it ain't gonna get you on the big screen.
This story, which will probably get me sued, even though it is true, is called, "BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG DICK IN MY ASS."