I’ll admit it — I’m a starfu*ker.

I crave the limelight.
I have mini-fantasies about being discovered.
I come up with elaborate stories just to perhaps get a glimpse of those who live in the land where the sun always shines, where movie scripts magically appear on their doorstep, and where an inclusion into US Magazine is a reality of their job.
I lust after fame (and its subsequent fortune) and, well, for lack of a better word, that makes me a starfu*ker. [Note: The strategic spelling is a website necessity or any and all porn-seekers will end up hitting my site.]

In a feeble attempt to find a documented definition of “Starfu*ker”, I found a little bit of everything, but the closest to my intended meaning was found in an interview with Kathy Griffith when she said that it is someone who “kisses the asses of celebrities.” Now, that titillates me in the definition itself, since I would have to be in the same premesis with said star to be able to do any authentic ass kissing and that, my friends, would be the penultimate happy-dance impetus.

Pathetic? Perhaps. But genuine, nonetheless.

Take this weekend. Apparently, Atlanta is bracing for the revelry that is the All Star Game, and I will attest that those near and dear to me have been actively planning their outfits since December. (It is an amazement in itself that I have been excluded from this consensus, but somehow I got a hold of myself.) There are spreadsheets of parties being passed around, name-dropping on phones (cell, work, home, and the like) galore and it seems all of the ATL is embracing my own guilty pleasure of Starfu*king.

I am no exception.

Thus far, we’ve heard the rumors that Justin Timberlake will be gracing us with his presence, Jay-Z and Ja Rule will be party hopping, and even Whitney Houston is apparently throwing a fiesta for her parole-evading hubby. Mariah is doing a tribute to MJ (Jordan, not Jackson), Beyonce is a co-host of one of the at least 100 parties that are planned, and already there are so many Hummers in the city that it looks like we’ll soon be under marshall law.

A hassle at worst, a gigantic pain in my ass at best, I’ll turn to my friend Mr. Timberlake in response to any and all naysayers:

“Cry me a river…”