Q: Will fame destroy me?

A: Yes. In fact, it already has. But unless you're an international celebrity, you probably wouldn't understand.

I'll humor you. Ninety minutes ago, I received a mention on Andrew Sullivan's delightful Time Magazine blog, the Daily Dish.

Initially, this seemed like good news -- a wonderful opportunity to showcase my wares for prospective employers and wives and mistresses. To celebrate, I popped open a bottle of the finest champagnya, and a bag of the finest Haribo gummy bears. What to do next? I asked myself, while awaiting Nick Denton's call.

Having entered the pantheon of the world's most famous and beloved bloggers, the possibilities were endless. Should I write my memoirs? Embark upon a lecture tour? Perhaps accept an offer to DJ this weekend's Misshapes? Make love to Naomi Watts? I decided first to purchase a corporate jet.

Sadly, the innocence of those early moments as a superstar were short lived. Within fifteen minutes, I'd finished two bottles of bubbly, a case of Natural Ice, seven packs of cigarettes and several milligrams of cocaine. Suddenly, I found myself disconnected from friends and family; I bedded three prostitutes; I was forcibly ejected from Bungalow 8; I briefly dated Kate Moss. Clearly, the pressures of fame were wearing on me, and it was not yet noon.

And still, the Sullivan readers clicked, and came; and oh, how they clicked and they came.

Oh God, what have I done? What...have...I...done...?

I'm posting this entry from an opium den in the West Indes. I wish I could tell you that this story ends happily, but it doesn't. In fact, it doesn't end at all -- fame has left me crippled with writer's block.

Perhaps someday I will regain the will to live and blog. In the meantime, you content-devouring wolverines, go read Adam Kinesis' sex column.