DEALMAKER/BREAKER: You Are Lady Gaga
You told me to meet you here, in the back room of what appears to be either a giant shoe store or a gay bar. You called me “Lovely” as if that was my name (it’s not). You ordered me a drink, and it was a smoothie made of hundred dollar bills and glitter. I’m more of a Jameson man, myself, but I guess I appreciate the thought? You told me my clothes were “not camera ready,” and you gave me a shirt made of ostrich feathers. But, you’re really hot? I think? I actually don’t know what you really look like, to tell you the truth. But, I guess any girl who wears that much makeup at all times must be a knockout, right? Or not? Look, I’m too confused to fight this. Yes, I’ll go on your hot pink private jet. Yes, I’ll drink champagne w/you and Perez Hilton. Yes, I’ll roll around in a giant hamster wheel while you throw red paint on me. This must be what it feels like to fall in love. That, or I’ve lost my fucking mind.
