I swear sometime I think I’m God’s running joke. Like when the world gets God down, He parts the clouds and peeks into my life, throwing in a few funny things just to make Him chuckle. For example, here I am, wearing the robe of one of the sexiest men of all time and I’m about to jump off his balcony. Why am I about to risk my life rather than walk out the front door like any other respectable woman? Because it just hit me. It’s JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. The man probably has paparazzi sleeping on his front doorstep and I’m sure they would find it interesting that some small time writer from Atlanta is waltzing out of the home he shares WITH HIS WIFE!!!!

Yeah, that’s right people, wife. You see, he wanted to with Britney, then he almost did with Cameron, then he actually did it, tied the knot I mean, with the former Ms. Jessica Biel. It’d been about a year and a half if I remember correctly and according to the usual gossip rags I secretly love to read (::cough:: Star ::cough::) things have been getting kinda rocky. But that’s none of my business…well maybe it is now that I’ve slept with her husband, but I digress. Anyways, since I can’t walk out the front door the old fashioned way, I figure the next best thing is to jump off his balcony. Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but it’s only one story up and there are some bushes to break my fall, so it shouldn’t be that bad, right? I’ll be fine, I just try to… I don’t know, fall lightly or something.

I look down into the trash bag I’d filched from under his bathroom sink.

Ok, purse, check.

Blouse, check.

Skirt, check.

Jen’s Manolo’s. Double check.

Bra check.

Panties… Panties?....Oh no…Oh God no…

I looked back into the room, my eyes searching frantically for my favorite panties. My pink Hello Kitty panties that aren’t meant to be seen by the light of day. Oh God…

I took a step back towards the room when Justin yawned and stretched, then spied my Blackberry on the carpet where it fell. I didn’t hesitate before diving for it, then reeling back around, I tossed by stuff over the balcony into the bushes below and followed suit.

Let me tell you, in the movies where the good guy leaps from a second story window into a patch of bushes, jumps up, and keeps running like it never happened, all that is a lie. It hurts. A lot. The branches stabbed about every inch of my body, my head’s throbbing, and there foliage in my hair, my snarled unforgiving hair that won’t release the sticks and leaves without a full 30 minute detangle session. And now, to make matters worse,  I have to sprint like Flo Jo so the gorgeous man upstairs won’t see some half naked, nature woman with a trash bag trying to escape in his robe  across his back lawn and over his fence. God, I hate my life….

Three backyards, one guard dog, and half a mile later, I hailed a taxi only after two others had passed, probably thinking I was some crazy, homeless lady.

‘Downtown, the Grant-Miller building, please.’

The cabbie, a creepy looking guy smelling strangely of moldy cheese, gave me smile and somehow managed to give me a once over in the two inch rearview mirror.

‘Whatever you like, ma’am’

Oh, God. I would get one of those. Which made my next request even worse.

‘Hey, I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you don’t looking in the back seat for the next 10 minutes. Every time you look, you lose ten, ok?’

Seven minutes later, I was dressed and the cabbie was down to 40 bucks, the little sleaze. I grabbed my phone and pressed four, my speed dial for James, and hit send while absent mindedly trying my best to yank twigs and leaves out of my wild hair.

The phone rang four times and went straight to voicemail. Odd, that man lived and died by his Bluetooth headset.

After giving me the normal, automated spiel about leaving a message, it clicked to the personal voicemail.

A cheery woman spoke, ‘Hey, this is Jessica. Sorry I couldn’t catch your call. Leave a message after the beep. Thanks!’

I ripped the phone away from my ear and stared at it in horror as it beeped at me. Scrambling for the ‘End’ button, I let out a silent scream.

No. Noo. NOOOOOOOO. You left your phone, your company phone, registered to YOU, at Justin-fucking-Timberlake’s house. I turned and let my face hit the taxi window, something probably teeming with germs and general nastiness, but I didn’t even care. I was going to get fired. And to make things worse, my disgusting cabbie decided to speak.

 ‘ Ma’am are you alright?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. My life just has some issues.’

“Really? Cause I’d love to subscribe to them.’

‘Don’t push it, buddy. You’re already down to 40.’

He smiled as he pulled up to the shining glass castle, ‘It was totally worth it.’

I sighed, flung the two twenties at him, and climbed out. I swear somewhere up there, God must be laughing…