Not quite meta.
If life is going to imitate the fiction I read last night (casting me in the role of Chris Kirkpatrick no less), could it be the spectacular sex with JC Chasez please, and not the part where I fall and bruise my tailbone? And I can't even bitch at Justin for bowling me over... (Note to self: make sure to hang hammock up right, next time. Balcony floor is --unsurprisingly for concrete-- unyielding.)