I had at various points during the whole trippy experience felt exceedingly sorry for myself. I wasn't a poster child for coping with optimism and perkiness to begin with, but as the day and night progressed I found myself continually excelling myself in the sheer force of self pity I was drumming up. First it was the sheer freakishness of what I'd fallen into. Then it was the 'congratulations you are now a fictional entity' revelation coupled with the dating JT thing. Next it was LA traffic, then it was 'congratulations you've inherited a stalker,' and finally it was the problem of how to turn down your idol when he's determined to seduce you.

I feel like I ought to be locked in a padded room for even imagining such things let alone claiming to have experienced them (if I did, the dream possibility is still definitely on the table) but the fact is that it is what it is. The other problem being that I don't know what it is and that in trying to ponder it out I am mauling the English language with phrases like 'the fact is that it is what it is.' If it was a person I'd be suggesting that it sued me for bodily harm or something. It may seem weird to suggest to somebody that they sue you but really, in this case I have it coming. Lucky for me the English language would have a problem turning up in court or hiring a lawyer.

Underpinning all this, however, was the whole pregnancy issue. Quite frankly I've now been put off having children for life… or biological ones, anyway. Maybe Angelina Jolie has the right idea with the whole adoption thing, because the pregnancy I'd inadvertently written myself into was horrific - and as it turned out, I knew would have a horrific birth to go along with it, though at least the kid turned out healthy. Hollie wasn't even that far along, but as I lay in bed struggling to get to sleep everything hurt. I mean everything. For ease of description I will refer to everything as being mine rather than hers: my boobs hurt, my stomach and throat hurt after all the throwing up, and even my eyes were stinging. There is just no way to sleep through all that, however gamely I tried. Insomnia's always been a close personal friend of mine anyway, but I just could not take my mind off of the gnawing ache in my stomach long enough to clear it for sleep. I well remembered how gross it was to throw up, but I'd forgotten how much it physically hurts your chest and stomach muscles to do it.

Justin, the lucky bastard, was sleeping like a baby next to me. He wasn't quite snoring, but he was breathing a little heavily. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm and he was stretched out lazily on his back, one arm flung over his head on the pillow and the other resting lightly over his diaphragm. A lone foot stuck out from under the sheets. People look pretty daft while they sleep - a mouth slightly open or their faces smushed into a pillow - but somehow he was still managing to work the silly pose. He'd even managed to sleep through every time I rushed out of the bed and ran to the bathroom to noisily throw up. I swear I read somewhere in an interview that the real Mr Timberlake is a light sleeper; his fictional counterpart really did not share this problem. I think I would have had to let off a siren in the room before he heard anything. This was a mixed blessing - on the one hand it was less embarrassing to have a big famous dude watching you hurl, on the other some assistance and maybe a little sympathy wouldn't have gone unappreciated.

Yeah, okay, I'm a hypocrite; I'd been pushing his clingy self away all evening, but as soon as I got sick I was resenting him for not jumping to attention. I never said I was logical.

I have grown far more sensitive and prone to crying in my old age anyway, but rarely do I do it out of sheer frustration. I cry when somebody's been mean to me or upset me, or if there's something sad on TV. My tears don't normally come just because the day has been that shitty, but in this case I'd had just about enough. My stomach hurt, I couldn't sleep, I was terrified that I was never leaving that stupid story - which, hey, got friends and family of my own here and I wasn't looking to trade - and having Justin sleep peacefully beside me was just kind of rubbing the whole thing in. It was salt in the wound. Poor schmuck, he really was getting a rough time from me that day. Good job that the crappy pregnancy could be blamed, hormones are occasionally useful in the excuse department. That's about all they are good for though.

"No, Hols, no…"

At first I thought I'd woken him up with my crying. Quickly and surreptitiously I wiped my eyes and turned over with the best smile I could muster as if to say 'see, I'm fine.' I wouldn't have been kidding anybody but the good news was that I didn't have to. The boy was still fast asleep, he was just muttering to himself. Maybe it was rude of me to listen in, but hey, I wasn't getting to sleep any time soon and it wasn't like I could turn on the TV. Instead I sat up in the bed and watched his face as best I could in the darkness, the street lamp outside the window casting only the very faintest illumination through the curtains.

"What?"

"Not here."

"That's… what are you…"

Infuriatingly, he wasn't giving away many hints here. All I could discern from his inane babble was that his girlfriend was making some appearance in this dream and that he was talking to her. Apparently he didn't understand what she was up to either.

"God, Hols…" he breathed out quietly, shifting slightly in his sleep and the arm on the pillow dropping lower towards his head.

The lack of detail kind of made it all less interesting. I hugged my knees to my chest with a sigh and wondered precisely who I had to pray to in order to get out of this whole thing. Jesus, Allah, Vishnu… heck, I even thought about taking it old school and trying Zeus. At that point I was already doomed to being taken for a loon and thus, I figured, what further harm could a midnight ritual to the pond people do? My reputation was already screwed.

I was just about to give up and see if getting some ice cream would soothe my burning throat a little when Justin started getting very twitchy. He began shifting and fidgeting, little grunts and sighs coming out as he did so. It was probably a good thing I was already awake, because that would have been guaranteed to wake my poorly sleeping self up anyway. It looked like he was trying to turn over but hadn't quite worked up the energy, just little shifts and raises of his back and limbs before they fell back to the mattress and pillows again. He looked really stupid. Finally I couldn't take it and the silly whisperings any longer, so I tried a trick that occasionally used to work on my sister when she was a fidgeting toddler; this trick amounted to placing a soft but firm hand down on the stomach and waiting for them to succumb to the pressure. Yeah, well. When my sister was a toddler I never accidentally misjudged where my hand was going, and for obvious reasons even if I had I never would have never met an erect penis.

Oh yes people, that's right, I accidentally grabbed Justin Timberlake's genitalia while he was in the middle of a sex dream. The whisperings told me nothing but the midnight wood told me everything.

I immediately whipped the hand I would never stop scrubbing away from his crotch and used the other to cover my mouth in horror. My cheeks were aflame, I imagine that if the room had been lit you would have seen me go fire engine red. I also let out a horrified and barely muffled squeak. I felt like a total pervert, despite the fact that I had most certainly not been aiming for his penis - I also felt rather stupid, when you're aiming for somebody's belly button how badly do you have to misjudge to find their private parts? Had I not taken high school biology? I'd just groped a total stranger in his sleep; they arrest people for that kind of shit.

Couple the hallucination with the sexual assault and Freud would have a field day on me.

"Hols?"

The phrase 'oh crap' flew into my head when I realised that this time he was awake and really moving. My face burned even hotter. How was I going to explain the fact that I'd been feeling him up in his sleep? That was weird enough even if you were in a relationship.

"You awake?" I asked weakly.

"Yeah, yeah," he said groggily, sitting up beside me. "Why you still up? You been sick?"

"Yes," I squeaked, still unable to yank my hand from my mouth. Let him think I was trying to hold down the nausea. It wasn't a lie, I had been sick an awful lot that evening. It had taken a lot of mouthwash and gargling to rid me of the taste in my mouth.

"How bad has it been?" Sleep still laced his voice, his speech was slow and awkward, yet still the Daddy radar was back on. You could never accuse the guy of not caring.

"I may have thrown up some internal organs along with the curry," I replied, hoping that if I was gross enough he'd be too distracted to think about why he'd woken up.

I felt like a perverted little wretch when he put his arms around my shoulders and hugged me to him; then I felt sick again when I realised the way my body had fallen had my face pointing back towards his crotch. At this point, I added a new theory to the ranks of drugs and dreams - somebody on high was bored and just fucking with me for entertainment.

"I know it's little consolation," he said through a yawn as he stroked my hair and I tried not to concentrate on the fact that he was probably still… well, you know. "But they say this is only supposed to last through the first few weeks. It'll be over soon."

"You're right, that's little consolation," I said miserably as I considered the brutal and horrifying possibility that I was going to be stuck in that body for a while. "Kill me now?"

"But if I did that who would call me all those names?" Justin asked with a smile as he kissed the top of my head. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to focus on the fact that he smelled nice. Not all boys do smell nice - a lot of them stink, the girls in the playground got that right - but he had just the faintest clean whiff of soap about him, no cologne. That was probably a good thing; my sense of smell was a little sensitive and apparently a key trigger for the throwing up.

"You lived for years with only Chris to do that," I offered weakly.

"Chris isn't half as good at it."

That was probably true in real life as well as in this piece of fiction - my reputation for evil is well deserved, what can I tell you? I'm a mean bitch who gropes poor unsuspecting pop stars in their sleep after ingesting one too many magic mushrooms. Or maybe it was a tab of E; to this day I'm really not sure what exactly could have caused so vivid a hallucination. I just know it had to have been something because there's no bloody way that shit was real. Unless the 'somebody on high' theory was true.

"True."

"See, what would I do without you?"

"Sleep soundly through the night?"

"Well, yeah. You do snore you know."

He was one to bloody talk, all the shit that had been coming out of his mouth. I or more accurately she wasn't the one doing sex talk in her sleep. Besides, I don't recall writing into the story that Hollie was a snorer - then again I don't recall writing in any of this insanity either yet still I was witnessing it.

Come to think of it, it was a shame that I couldn't use that whole thing against him. He was about having some kinky dream in his sleep where Hollie was throwing herself at him in an inappropriate time or place and he was doing it out loud, yet he was giving me crap about snoring when God knows I hadn't slept a wink? It really upset me that I couldn't use such potent ammo without incriminating myself. Yes, I know that's a weird thing to be upset about but haven't you already worked out from this whole ridiculous tale that I'm deranged?

"Really."

"Yep."

"Well you don't want to know the crap you come out with in your sleep, pal."

"Like what?" He challenged me.

"But if I told you that it wouldn't be half as fun as announcing it in front of the guys," I shrugged. Hell, if I couldn't tell him, I could at least taunt him with knowing something that he didn't. I'm a real bitch when I'm pregnant, God help the poor sucker who knocks me up for real - though, like I said, I'm looking to avoid that and go the adoption route if at all possible. Then Angelina and I can set up play dates.

"You got nothing," Justin said with more conviction than I suspect he felt.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night. Which, by the way, I'd like to do now."

"Okay."

From the way he continued to hold his arm around me, I didn't have much choice when he yanked me down to the pillows with him and wrapped me up like his own personal teddy bear. After the whole groping incident I really didn't feel like doing anything to piss him off or offend him, so I figured I'd wait until he was asleep to try and pull away. It's not like it exactly sucked snuggling up to him - the body really is as good as it looks, ladies - but I just felt awkward and wrong for it. I felt like I was screwing over my own character by defrauding one and usurping the other. And really, I'd done enough to those two (or at least, by the time the story played out I would, they hadn't got to that part yet).

"I know it sucks, baby," he said sleepily, "but you're doing great you know." He punctuated it with a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "It'll be over before you know it."

"Doesn't feel like it," I replied, talking about something else entirely.

"It will, promise." He shifted over until his was on his side and facing me, yanking me further into his body. I really wish I'd been able to enjoy that as it should be enjoyed, it was Justin friggin' Timberlake even if it was an imagined version. "Most people would have, like, keeled over by now or something but you're doing great. You'll be a really great mom."

I didn't correct him by reminding him that millions of women managed pregnancy without keeling over every day of the week. He was being too sweet and I'd already done enough to him that evening without adding being mean to the list.

"I'll muddle my way through." Oops, muddle was a little too British. I was supposed to be a California Girl (insert Beach Boys song here).

"Nah, you'll be the pro telling me what an idiot I am and reminding me not to hold the baby backwards," he joked. Well, it was a meant to be a joke; I heard the truth beneath the laugh.

"No, you'll be a great dad," I told him honestly. I should know, after all, I wrote it. I would have patted his back or something if I didn't think I'd already patted enough for one evening. "You will."

"You won't say that when you're reminding me that you powder the ass not the face."

Again with the disparaging joke… poor boy was insecure. "Will you stop it? You're Mr Hyper Prepared and you already read more books than I have. You'll be great, you'll pick it up like a natural and be Mr Dad and treat her like a princess."

"Her?"

Oh crap. The one thing I'd sworn to myself not to do - give away any plot twists - and what had I done? Dropped a clanger that neither of them could possibly have known, and at the same time as using Justin's personal pet name for his daughter: Princess. Fuck it, I was chock full of stupid that evening. Of course, we established that the second I mentioned I'd been transported into a piece of fiction.

"Well, if it's a her," I clumsily covered. "But for the purposes of the pep talk it doesn't sound the same when you say treat him like a prince. But whatever, it applies to both genders."

"It better not apply to both genders, treating a son like a princess is just going to lead to later life gender identity issues." Well, at least that time the joke sounded a little happier.

"Whatever. You'll be the world's best father and if I thought otherwise I wouldn't be here. Quit worrying and sleep."

"Okay, okay. Goodnight, Hols."

"Goodnight."

He really did sound a lot happier. I suppose the least I could do to make amends for being a crabby bitch who felt him up without permission was give him a little vote of confidence. Besides, I really did know what I was talking about. I wrote it, after all.

***

Well, it turned out that after going to sleep clasped to a smiling Justin like his baby blankie I then woke up alone. I woke up alone in my own room with my own stuff and in my own house. It was beautiful. Even that annoying stain in the wallpaper where the decorator overdid it with the wallpaper paste was beautiful. Reality is beautiful.

So… that's it.

That's the end of my psychotic hallucinatory tale during which I broke copious traffic laws, obtained money by deception (I used her credit card), failed to report a bail violation thus aiding and abetting a criminal and also molested a man in his sleep. Believe me or don't believe me, call the cops or don't call the cops, I'm just glad I got it off my chest. It's a relief, it was very headache inducing and my local pharmacist was starting to look at me funny for buying so much aspirin. I think she suspected drug abuse. I wish I could say there was some moral of the story but I'm not sure I learned much other than pregnancy is a terrible system for procreation, whoever created it must have been male, and to just say no. Crack is truly whack, people.

As for why this happened, you still got me. Nothing really makes sense. The idea that it really happened for whatever reason is of course preposterous, but none of the other explanations seem that great either. I have never had a dream that rooted in normality or that realistic. I have never dreamed in surround sound. The drugs would be the next thing but I have never taken drugs in my life before (seriously, even the one attempt at tobacco went badly) and I don't see why I would have started now. I wondered if telling it at such length would help me work out precisely what in blazes happened, but I still have nothing so for the rest of my life I will fear fan fiction. That's not quite as atmospheric or spooky as fearing for whom the bell tolls or the cry of a raven or whatever but people, take a cautionary warning. Don't write about stalkers. Don't write about horrendous child births. They may come back to haunt you.

In fact, there's the moral of the story - Mary Sue, people. If you write Mary Sue than nothing could possibly be that bad if you get sucked into the damn thing.

Also, maybe write yourself in so that if you do get sucked in there you can be sucked in as yourself and enjoy any sexual encounters you may have with hot pop stars guilt free.

Also… possibly if you seek regular psychiatric evaluation you can prevent this shit before it happens. Oh, and don't do drugs. Okay. Shutting up now. I won't take offence when you all inevitably remove me from your friends lists. Or call the men in white coats.

No, really, shutting up now. I need to shut up. And also a valium.