hip lounge to share some cocktails and smooch. There, he hands me a heart-shaped box. Inside, I find a publishing contract, a check big enough to pay off my student loans and an invitation to accompany George to next year’s Oscars. Of course, by next year, my book will have come out, I’ll have turned it into a script and undoubtedly will be winning a screenwriting award at the ceremony. Note to self: get Oscar speech ready.
On the way to George’s hotel, I get a call from the Nobel Foundation. They’ve seen the manuscript of my book and have decided to award me the Nobel Prize for Literature. The book hasn’t come out yet, but it’s just that darn good. Next, I get a call from Barack Obama, inviting me to the White House to celebrate my new prize. As an aside, he says, “you seem to have some creative ideas. Maybe you’d like to be a member of my cabinet? We need more women.” And I say, “thanks, but I wouldn’t want to overshadow Hillary.” Barack mentions that if I ever need a place to stay in DC, I can totally crash at his place.
Sharing a cocktail back at the hotel, Clooney says, “y’know, I realize I have a reputation for being a drunken, womanizing schmuck who only dates leggy waitresses and soft-core porn actresses. But baby, you move me. Will you be my wife?”
And I say, “man, I told you I’m not sure about marriage.”
And he says, “dear God, woman, don’t you see how I suffer? It’s always been a dream of mine to have a short, brown wife like you to live in my sprawling Italian villa and write novels all day. What if I put in an extra pool?”
So, I tell him I’ll think about it. Then I think about it, then I say yes. And George weeps and says, “I don’t deserve to be this happy.”
Then I let him get drunk and womanize me.