Move Over, Ke$ha: I’m Graduating

Ihope all you brats out there with slam-dunk lookalikes had fun during doppelganger week. I hope you sat around all day admiring the bombshell in your profile picture and racking up “likes” and OMGs for a comment thread so fat it’s still No. 1 on my News Feed. I hope you enjoyed it — because doppelganger week did not go so swell this side of the tracks.

After a string of disheartening suggestions — including such stunners as Courtney Love, Garth from “Wayne’s World” and that chick who was banging Scott Peterson — one of my coworkers (apparently not needing a letter of recommendation anytime in the future) informed the entire newsroom that he had finally stumbled upon my true doppelganger: the morning-after scarecrow behind such grrrl-power party hits as “Tik Tok,” “Blah Blah Blah” and “Your Love Is My Drug” — each chronologically more likely to kill brain cells than the last.

Although I’m 99 percent positive he only made the Ke$ha connection because my hair is always so fucked up (unless he also snooped the mini bottles of Jack lining my medicine cabinet), said editor did inspire me to more closely investigate the talentless twentysomething’s freak rise to fame. I braved her three-video YouTube dominion, her Saturday Night Live disaster and a few excruciating interviews.

“I’m just honest about the things I believe in,” Ke$ha said to Interview Magazine. “For instance, I went yesterday to a past-life regressionist, and he told me that in my past life I was assassinated. I’m pretty sure that I was JFK in my past life.”

Does that mean my doppelganger actually gets to be JFK? I fucking hope so. Above all, though, dearest Ke$ha got me thinking: Maybe the career path of filthy-rich superstar is not as farfetched as I once imagined.

I mean, I’m already headed for Los Angeles. Once a loyal NorCal warrior quick to decry my southern counterparts, I now know there’s shitty people at both poles — but at least the ones down here don’t think they were chosen by god to relive the ’60s on 25 times the budget. At least in SoCal, everyone’s just trying to have a good time. So the Bay’s out. That said, San Diego, admittedly, is not exactly the doofy surf-bro niche to which I want to culturally condemn myself. So LA it is.

A few months ago, my post-grad plan of action was to elope north with my trusty laptop, no doubt stepping straight into the life of Hank Moody from “Californication.” I would soon strike it rich by selling my grungy heartbreak novel to an unhip studio giant; from there, it’d be one big blur of sand, sun, good beer and choice groupies with a taste for dry wit. Amen.

However, the apparent dip in demand for slightly slackerish freelancers has forced me to consider selling out in a much bigger way. And it won’t be as difficult as I once thought: Ke$ha, wise mentor that she is, has shown me that all I have to do is capitalize on my faults. Let me count the reasons why I — raised by wolves in a wild manzanita grove (plus one for quirky backstory) — will be the next big thing out of the ’Wood.

1) I’ll be living in a cardboard box. (Until my record company starts making it rain, of course). This will provide for sufficiently nappy jeans and a whole host of catchy anecdotes about hardcore street liquids with which I am forced to brush my teeth. Since I’ll be rather young and attractive by bum standards, I’ll probably even reap enough coinage for a music-video handycam and glow-in-the-dark bodypaint. I may need a pro-bono boob job, though. Know anyone good?

2) I somehow sing even worse than Ke$ha — meaning convertibles brimming in16-year-olds will be even more inclined to drown me out with hairbrush-in-rearview renditions. Also — though it’s a lesser-appreciated talent ­— bitch ain’t got shit on my smoker’s cough. Think about it: Nothing can unlock memories of last night’s six-footer like some rib-rattling aveoli on the beat (or “the telltale cough,” as the News girls call it when I’m doing edits). Now imagine what kind of studio magic I could make with a stethescope.

3) From there, being $imone won’t be much more complicated than alternating my Coachella and Burning Man outfits every other week while turning all Uffie’s stiletto stories into the common whore’s walk-of-shame equivelents. Pretty soon, I’ll be chillin’ in the control room with P. Diddy, Lil Jon and LMFAO, cackling into our crystal balls while the masses swarm to “Shots!” like dying flies to hot shit.

So please — stop asking what I’m doing when I graduate. Because now you know: I’m doing it big.

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