Corey Haim’s “Notes from the afterlife,” 14
A quick observation, if you’ll allow me: this one time, after the premier of Snowboard Academy I think it was, I signed some chick’s breast, which she just kinda flopped into my hand right there in the lobby of the Vine theater. I may have snorted a line of crank off it, too, I don’t really remember. Those experiences tend to blend together.
Anyway, I bring this up not as the happy memory it really should be, but as a kind of cautionary tale about celebrity, fame, temptation, etc. Because the fact is, to some people, the minute they drop a tit in your hand and ask you to sign it, or the minute you lick a little crank off their nipple, they believe they own you. Like, forever.
The moral of the story being this: there are some crazy, obsessive fuckers down there. And they can almost always be identified by their poster collections, or the wallpaper on their Twitter pages.
Whereas here? It may be squalid and seedy and filled with dirty Haitians, but a flopped tit is just that, an invitation — not some kind of implied commitment ceremony.
Sorry if that’s getting a bit preachy. But the truth is, I sometimes surprise myself with how, like, pensive I get after my cash runs out and I have to spend a week with the shakes while trying to ween myself off of Mike’s Hard Lemonade and opium. And sometimes Funyons.