A/N: Oh dear God, I love Stefon.

I'm a little unsure about whether or not it was a good idea to post this fic because I don't know whether or not this counts as "real person fic." Because technically, Seth Meyers is a real person. But Stefon is not, and he and Seth Meyers interact. So I could surely get around the rule by saying that Weekend Update's Seth Meyers is in fact a fictional character named after the actor and who is very similar to the real person . . .

Gah, I still feel creepy.

But anyway. Introspective fics like this are always hardest for me to do, because they tend to devolve into rambling more than any form of narrative. But I felt this absolutely needed to be written, because Stefon is, let's face it, a one-note joke character. Sure, I could try fleshing him out through a straight narrative, but I needed to delve into his mind first. It was horrifying and sad and a little funny all at the same time. I offer any Stefon fans this documentation of my journey into the subconscious of our favorite bizarre but strangely endearing club kid.

R&R, and please, enjoy.

Do you ever feel like there's another man living inside your body? If you're a freak, like me, I'm sure you do.

I know just how it feels. He's a nice, normal dude, the kind of person you never meet personally in your daily life. And he thinks you're ridiculous. He will constantly break out laughing at you because you're so ridiculous. And no matter how rude he seems, on one level or another, he's always right.

I have named mine Bill.

Bill is both my own creation and the truth of my existence. I'm so ridiculous that sometimes I can't tell what's real and what's all a wacky dream. But having an alternate personality doesn't make me crazy. I'm not sure what does.

All I know is that there's something wrong with me and there always has been.

When I go to clubs, I can never tell whether or not I'm actually enjoying myself. Maybe if I had some steadfast friends to share it with, I could have some worry-free fun. But I don't have any friends. I go to clubs and meet new BFFs and get directed to new clubs and never see those BFFs ever again. Every week my social scene is completely changed. But at the same time (and Bill has definitely noticed this), it's always the same weird criminal candyland.

It's super boring. And even through all of that jacked-up monotony, Seth is the only real continuity in my life.

I met Seth Meyers . . . hmm. I don't know whether it was in high school or book club or the post office or what – it was a long time ago. All I know is that wherever it was, there was also a guy named Carlos and I was The Twitchy Gay Loner Who We Once Caught Looking at Freaky Midget Porn on Carlos's Laptop (word to the wise: avoid watching anything labeled "Human Dildos" at all costs. It's a gateway drug). Seth was the only one who didn't look at me scornfully. You know, I can't picture him looking at anyone scornfully, even if he tried, what with those pretty eyes of his and his dimples. All of the beautiful he has going on . . .

So, yes, I noticed All of the Beautiful before I realized he was the only open-minded person I knew, but maybe that's wrong because for a while, all the cocaine really hurt my capacity for remembering anything about anyone besides whether or not I would do them. Either way, I didn't remember how nice he was until he wrote me that letter.

The day I got my first letter from Seth Meyers was the best day of my life. I stumbled home with the help of my new fake best friend, Aziza, the Androgynous Imam (shut up, Bill). Aziza dumped me next to the mail cubby at the bottom floor of my lame apartment complex.

Now, I never check my mailbox because no one ever sends Stefon any mail. But I was still off my loop from a nightlong round of the favorite playground game of eight-year-old delinquents, Red Rover, Red Rover, Flip That Gyro Stand Over, down at New York's hottest club, Squeeeee, and when I saw that there was a box over my head that had my room number on it, what else was I supposed to do but grope around for my room key and stick it all up in there?

The second I smelled that wonderful smell of Seth Meyers wafting from the little door, I was overwhelmed with memories from preschool or the beach or Italy or wherever the hell I knew him from. At first I wanted to cry, but I couldn't, because long ago I sold my tear ducts for blow and since then the only tears I make are actually Bill's.

So I laughed instead.

Laughter and me have a strained relationship. I hear it all the time at clubs, and I want to join in, but I can't figure out why I'm hearing it in the first place. There's hardly ever anything funny going on. When I laugh, it's fake. I've grown to resent it.

But when I got the letter, saw my name handwritten on the envelope, and opened it to see a job offering from my gorgeous crush of yesteryear, I felt something strange building up in my stomach. My heart started beating super-fast in conjunction. I swallowed, hoping to hold back the inevitable puking-slash-OD. But what was rising in my throat wasn't vomit. It turned out to be a loud guffaw. The sound scared me so much that I dropped the letter and slapped both of my hands onto my mouth. That couldn't stop it – my shoulders started convulsing and I felt my face glowing red-hot under my hands. For a minute I thought I was finally going completely crazy, because I actually liked the feeling.

It was only after I got to know Seth once again that I realized why that letter made me smile and laugh for the first time in years. It was joy. I was feeling joy. No one brings me joy like Seth does.

Not Imam Aziza or Tranny Oakley or that dog that looks like Wilford Brimley.

Not my own parents.

Not all the human fire extinguishers in the world.

Not even stupid old Bill makes me happy, and he's pretty much me. I could chalk that one up to me hating myself, but I even do that less when Seth's around.

His studio on Saturday night is the only place where I feel safe. My world is full of like-minded people, but they've taken crazy in the other direction – the mean and scary direction.

His company gives me solace from my addiction. I know I look nervous when I'm on his show, but that's just because he's so beautiful and I'm so shy and naturally hyperactive. You don't want to see me outside of that room, a trembling wreck of a man going from club to club in the hopes that one of the rooms full of Japanese women breaking Apple computers also contains a stash of cocaine.

He tolerates me. He reaches out for my help. He makes me feel needed.

I love him.

But the thing is, I don't want him to love me back. No, it's not just because he's a breeder and he has a stupid slutty girlfriend. To that, I say "Whatever." It's because he's a nice, normal dude, the kind I never personally meet in my daily life, and I'm a freak. I'm an addict. I have STDs. I have ADHD. I can't bring myself to stop clubbing, even though I can't bring myself to enjoy it. Seth doesn't need to babysit me and my issues.

And even if I were to clean up my life, Seth Meyers and Bill have already introduced themselves, whether Seth's aware of it or not. Because doing the news is my time to reflect on my escapades, that's when Bill often does his worst. And even though he's too polite to say it to my face, on some level, Seth totally agrees with him about everything.

I'm ridiculous. And it's horrible.