Okay, so I'm a celebrity.

*sigh*

Have you got any idea what a load of horse manure that is? I suppose it could be an advantage, if I wanted to work it. Entrance to exclusive clubs, free meals in fancy restaurants just so people will see me eating there and swarm in, cases of products that people want me to endorse. But, damn it, I've never used eyeliner, and I'm not gonna shill for it now. I suppose I could have used it to paint Japanese style art...

Being famous for being an interdimensional kidnappee, I could understand. But this has gone directly to the 'famous for being famous' thing, only on a grand scale. Back home, George Hamilton got Hollywood Squares and a few minor product endorsements. Zsa Zsa was a punch line on Leno and Letterman. It's a lot more serious here. It's kind of scary. Don't these people have lives?

Two weeks after EXOTIQUE. Daily Planet circulation has sky rocketed because, not only does it have the only personal, first hand info on me, I work there. Hah. I'm stuck in a back room, hiding from the constant stream of lookiloos that security can't seem to keep out. The owners are happy, though. I got a raise. Of course, it's several decimal places away from some of the offers I'm getting.

I'm getting fan mail. I started letting the gang at Lavender's Green deal with most of it after the first few days. Jesus, that poor mailbox almost exploded. It was jammed so full that both Lois and I had to haul on it. I, of course, fell flat on my ass when a handful came loose. That photo ended up on the front cover of the Coast to Coast Enquirer. Lois was standing over me, reaching to help me up. They hinted at a 'domestic situation'. Clive suggested I give an interview to Galaxy, just to piss them off, and I've considered it.

I read some of the fan mail. Sheesh. There are some nice people out there, but some of the others...I'm just praying that these people get off on writing, and have no intentions of arriving in Metropolis to make their dreams come true. Because, let me tell ya, my maidenhood would be declared an endangered species. There are some really inventive boogers out there. I was expecting death threats. Surprisingly enough, there haven't been any. Unless you count being... um... pleasured to death. Yeah, lots of big egos out there, too.

Oh, and they're trying to look like me, too. This has me wondering if my situation is science-fiction, fantasy, or horror. Clive is thrilled. He's making enough money to consider expanding. "If I can keep my sanity from board straight blondes coming in and wanting to emerge just like you, precious. I'm good, but I'm not fucking Mandrake, the Magician." There are some perks. On my second visit, I became intimately acquainted with a set of solid silver handcuffs. (No, I won't tell you about it right now. You're spoiled, all of you.)

Oh, and did I mention the tv offers and movie scripts? Everything from guest spots on soaps, to co-anchor on a local news show, to my own breakfast themed cooking show. How many episodes could they do on Pop Tarts and cold cereal?

The movies had me being everything from a super hero with ill-defined powers to a policewoman partnered with a talking monkey. So you see, at least moviewise this world was pretty close to ours. As big a ham as I am, I wouldn't have paid 99 cents for a five day rental of those turkeys, so I wasn't tempted.

I waded through all this, trying to keep a level head. Hysteria just kept peeking around the corner, waiting to see if I was ready, but I kept beating it off. The gang helped a lot.

They were very protective. When a paparazzi snuck into the break room and started snapping pictures, Jimmy crowned him with a trash barrel. Then he and the rest of the apprentices and copy boys sort of tobogganed the poor squelch down a stairwell, after jerking the film out of his camera. The guy tried to make some noise about filing a suit. I spoke to him long enough to ask him if he really wanted me to make a public statement about how hideously he'd damaged my psyche.

I don't know how much more of this I can stand. This world has felt pretty real to me, up until now. Now I'm worried about succumbing to unreality. What if I become too much a part of this universe? Will I be able to go home, when they find a way?

Just a minute...

Is anybody trying to get me back home?

Oh, cripes. I've been so distracted by this fecal storm that I haven't thought about that. Who's looking, and how? Do I have to look myself? Scratch any chance at all right then. When it comes to science, if I was a dog, I wouldn't have enough brains to find my way to the end of a leash.

Am I going to have to start meeting with some of those scientists that have been yammering after me? Oooh, I don't want that. I've seen too many movies, read too many fan fictions. They conjure up images of Companies and Consortiums. Sterile rooms with glass walls and bars. And icky things like needles and straight jackets. Hey, maybe I'm a little paranoid. But then again, what if I'm not? No, I really don't want to have to deal with them.

So, as far as I can think this out, that pretty much leaves me with one choice.

I'm gonna have to have a serious talk with Clark/Kal El/Superdude.