So I Killed A Pop Star,
And How Life Looks Brighter When You're Driving
The Glitter Mobile
With Ronald McDonald & Friends In The Back Seat

I have to tell you, for a while there I was certain all the forces of evil were working against me. I mean, how many spilled cups of coffee can I take and how many post cards from happy, successful men who once called me the "C" word can I get before I start subscribing to Oprah magazine and move to Chechnya to make wooden dolls or learn the Mail Order Bride business?
But things are looking up, mes petits choux. My ducks are forming a row, I no longer feel the need to turn to drugs/Jerry Maguire/prostitution/primal scream therapy for help getting through the day, and somewhere in the distance instead of "Road to Nowhere" I can hear The Talking Heads' "Stay Up Late." The only potential cloud in my I-Can-See-Clearly-Now-The-Rain-Is-Gone sky?
I think I may have killed Mariah Carey this weekend.Hey, I said potential cloud. I know it could also potentially be My Crowning Achievement. That is if I don't get sent to prison where I will become a mute who can only grimace (why do you really think Ronald McDonald's pal's name was Grimace?) while getting gang banged by delinquent Mariah Carey fans.
The last thing I remember is lying down because I had the Worst Headache Ever. I'm pretty sure that was Saturday. The next thing I know, I woke up today and found an enormous bright yellow SUV with a vanity plate reading "Mariah" in my parking spot, the keys to this monstrosity in my clenched hands. Yeah. Worst Headache Ever will now be known (and referred to by my attorney) as Prelude to Psychotic Breakdown or Emergence of Alternate, Violent, Pop Singer Murdering Personality. Of course, there is another possibility. Isn't there?
I had better go hide. Call me when someone agrees to be my alibi and say we were having tawdry illicit sex at the time of death or Tommy Mottola offers me an award or when dinner is ready.