But I never told you about the time I had The Porno Princess stay at my place for a few months. What am I thinking about? Cause it’s a good story, and I think there’s some funny parts, and when I told this story to Jack Napier, he said something like, “bro, have I ever seen that!? Are you kidding me? I’ve never heard about ANYthing like that!”

Which kinda reminds me of the movie Tombstone, when The Good Guys are getting bushwhacked by The Bad Guys, and in the middle of it all Wyatt Earp decides to just leave his cover and walk right out into the river, totally exposing himself to gunfire, and then proceeds to smoke all The Cowboys — including Curly Bill Brocius. And a little later, after it all went down, Texas Jack Vermillion asks Turkey Creek Jack Johnson, “have you ever seen anything like that before?” and Turkey Creek Johnson says, “Seen anything like that before? I ain’t never even heard of anything like that before!”

In my particular situation, it wasn’t a gunfighter defying all odds and killing everyone in sight, but a Porno Princess stomping on her own fecal matter — as if her poop were grapes and she was making wine — trying desperately to break it up in order to get it down my bathtub drain.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I won’t bother with the stories leading up to this story. Oh sure, I could tell you about the argument we got into in which I tried to differentiate, for her, “fame” and “infamy”.

“I want to be famous, and that’s why I’m in porn.”

“But hun, porn will never make you famous…at best, you’ll be infamous. But nothing more.”

She looked at me with this sort of blank stare, and then, as if the sudden realization of exactly what infamous meant, said, “then how come Jenna Jameson is famous, huh?! Tell me that! Or Sasha Grey? Or any of those girls?”

“They’re infamous. Nothing more. They’re known simply for their porno and nothing else…and because of that they get cast in mainstream movies as either a hooker…or a dead hooker. Sometimes they’ll get as far as making bad, forgettable music…or banging some celebrity. Or getting cast by John Waters in one of his lesser films. And that’s about as far as it goes.”

“You’re wrong.”

Another time I asked her how anyone could Twitter for 12 hours in a row. Which is to say I left my apartment at 8AM to head to work, and when I got back that night at 8PM, she hadn’t moved an inch, really…except her thumbs and fingers, as they banged away on her smart phone. I stood there for 10 minutes, looking at her. I was waiting for her to say, “hi” or “how was your day?” She remained silent, her eyes fixed on the phone, so I finally asked, “What are you doing?”

Without looking up at me: “Tweeting.”

“All day?”

“I’m building up my followers!”

“You hungry?”

“Nope. I already ate, anyway. I had Quiznos delivered.”

“Quiznos delivers?”

“No, but I found this service that will go to wherever you want and get your order and bring it to you.”

“But Quiznos is literally at the end of the block. It’s like 50 yards from here. Maybe less.” (It really was. I’m not exaggerating.)

“So.”

“How much did this service charge to bring your food 100 feet from where it was made?”

“Twenty bucks.”

Her fingers glided over that Smartphone’s keyboard effortlessly and with blinding speed. Remember the faint cloud of filth that drifted around Pig Pen on Charlie Brown? Sitting there watching her Tweet reminded me exactly of that. So I asked, “think there’s any way I could get you to clean up all the crumbs and empty containers and empty soda cans all the other shit that’s accumulated around you for the past 72 hours since you last moved from that spot?”

Which finally brought her eyes off her phone and to me. “What do you expect me to do?” She looked around the sofa, and then back up at me. “Do you actually expect me to get on my hands and knees to scrub your floor?” And then she went back to her phone.

I left to go buy myself dinner.

“Oh my god!” she yelled as I was walking out. “I’ve almost got 10,000 followers!”

That Friday night, Porno Princess got her Porno Princess Pal, and the three of us went to the Improv Olympic West. I like that place, cause the PBR’s are cheap, and the shows are good. And since I lived right by the Metro stop (it was 25 feet past Quiznos), I could walk to the metro, take it two stops, and be in the middle of Hollywood for a buck and a quarter. Then it didn’t matter how much I drank, and I didn’t have to worry about paying to park.

Win-Win.

We got back a little past 1AM, and since I had an 8AM alarm set, I crashed.

Porno Princesses did not. I was so tired I didn’t hear them party, but a few hours later I could hear the Porno Princess I called everything but “girlfriend” yelling in the kitchen. I got up and peered out my bedroom door. Porno Princess Pal was sleeping soundly in the same spot Porno Princess would Tweet for hours on end.

I walked out of my bedroom and into the kitchen, and there Porno Princess sat, on the floor, with an empty bottle of wine between her legs. “Why don’t I get work? What’s wrong with me?! I’ve got nice tits and they’re NATURAL!!”

She was yelling at my kitchen cabinets.

I turned and walked back into my bedroom. She didn’t see me, and that was a good thing. She continued to yell, and she’d cry, and then she’d yell some more — mostly about how the porn industry sucked, and how all the people in it sucked, and how her family sucked, and why can’t I get more work?! and blahblahblah until I fell asleep again.

Which is about the time she shook my shoulder. “Hey. Are you sleeping?”

I didn’t move. So she shook again, and asked again, and shook again, until I opened my eyes. She said, “pay attention to me.”

I looked at my clock. It said 4AM. “I have to wake up in four hours. You get to sleep all day. Good night.”

This didn’t stop her. Her mouth ran loud and fast, and she covered all sorts of issues, from the male talent who disrespected her on set to family problems back home to her kitty back home she had to leave to —

“WHEN MY ALARM RINGS IN FOURS HOURS YOU ARE GETTING UP WITH ME AND YOU’RE GONNA P.A. FOR ME ALL DAY FOR MINIMUM WAGE! HOW’S THAT FOR SOME WORK?”

She went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. I looked at my alarm. It said 4:10AM. At 5:30 I woke up again, and the shower was still running, which wasn’t a good thing. I knew that right away, so I got up and tip-toed in to my bathroom, not knowing what to expect…but readying myself for whatever it could be.

An overdose?

Dead Porno Princess on my floor?

No…she was in the shower. It was running. The bathroom was a steam room, and the shower curtain hung open a few inches, and that’s when I saw the incident I’ll forever refer to as The Poop Stomping.

Which is to say she was stomping on her own poo-poo, as if it were grapes and she was making wine. I’ll say it again. And all I remember is brown all over my beautiful white, porcelain tub. A vintage tub with claw feet that I loved very much…which was now Very Poopy and Brown. I tip-toed back a few feet, rapped on the bathroom door, and announced, rather loudly, that I was about to enter.

“I NEED MY PRIVACY!” she yelled.

I went back to bed.

I wish this was the end of my story…but it’s not. Cause she jumped into bed a few minutes later. I looked at the clock. It said 5:15AM.

“Let’s fuck,” she cooed in my ear.

What was I thinking? Not sexy thoughts at all, but Poo River running down my bathroom drain.

She rubbed my back. She kissed my neck. She bit my ear.

I feigned sleep, and I wished — as hard as I’ve ever wished for anything in my life (including the Gordon & Smith skateboard I got for Christmas when I was 14) — that she would just leave me alone and fall asleep.

Instead, Porno Princess started twitching.

I didn’t think much about it.

Then, she started twitching a whole lot.

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. It said 5:18AM, which is when the convulsions began. I turned on the light and watched as she flip-flopped, like a fish, on my bed. I couldn’t believe it. Gasping for breath, too. I asked her if she was epileptic, which wasn’t the smartest thing to ask. Then, I ran out to my front room and woke up Porno Princess Pal…who didn’t want to wake up one bit.

“But she’s having some sort of attack!” I said.

“She’ll be fine,” Porno Princess Pal said, “just give her some water.” Then she rolled over and went back to sleep.

I walked back into my bedroom. Porno Princess was done flopping around, but her breathing was still heavy and her heart was beating out of her chest. I tried to get her to sit up, but she was out. Completely. Soft, too, like a scarecrow or play-doh. She lost all consciousness, too; all she did was breath hard and fast through her mouth.

I called 911.

911 got me over to the LAFD.

The fire department asked some questions, and in that time her breathing slowed, and she started coming to, which I told the dude on the other end of the line. “I mean do you guys really need to come?”

“Look, do you want us to come or not?”

“I dunno,” I said. Cause the last thing I needed to was explain to my Armenian neighbors why the paramedics were at my door at dawn, wheeling a Porno Princess out of my apartment on a stretcher. “She seems to be coming out of it,” I said…cause she really was.

“Just monitor her and if it gets bad again, call us.”

I stared at the wall, and the last time I looked at my clock before I fell back to sleep it said 6:30AM. Ninety minutes later I got up, skipped the shower, and went to work. When I got back, the sun was setting, and there she lie, wrapped up in bed, snoring lightly…like girls snore. I looked at her a little while, and then I called her agent and asked, “do you have room in your model house?”

He did.

She was out of my place a few days later. I haven’t had anyone live with me since. And, to this day, I never asked Porno Princess what cause her convulsions, or why she didn’t just drop her deuce down the toilet that night…like most normal people do.