I've said it before, and I'll say it again: DAMN, we live in a stupid culture.

What's up with all this "Diva" crap? What's the fascination? Way back when, before People magazine got into the business of bastardizing the world we live in into human-interest soundbites, "Diva" equaled "TURBOBITCH ON WHEELS," not "cute, plucky and utterly harmless pop culture female." Now everyone's a Diva. Mariah Carey's a Diva. Jennifer Love Hewitt's a Diva--a buxom, busty, exceptionally endowed, luscious Diva who wants to be my naughty spanking post...whoa, sorry. At this point, I even think Mrs. Cunningham from Happy Days qualifies as a Diva.

What does it really mean to be a Diva, I've often wondered? Can anyone aspire to this enhanced mental state, where the world is full of very tiny people who live only to bow to the Diva's almighty splendor? Or is it only a chosen few who are deserving of Divafication?

Burning with curiosity--and an inexplicable, ugly rash near my genitals--I decided to live one day as a Diva, in an effort to understand where this new breed of celebrity beast was coming from. (Okay, okay--so I also have this twisted thing for drag. Sue me!) What I learned might shock you; it might blow your mind. But it will most definitely make you wonder just how I could have so much useless free time on my hands, and why I don't take up a more normal hobby, like underwater basket weaving or macrame.

8 a.m.
I awake and allow myself a long, luxurious stretch, pretending that my imaginary yet perky breasts are pressing hungrily against the nightgown I'd donned last night specifically for my day in a diva's shoes. Then I violently hit the snooze button on my alarm clock. Let them wait all day for me at work! A Diva lives by her own rules!

9:30 a.m.
The phone rings and stirs me from a haunting dream, in which I stand on a balcony in Argentina like Madonna in Evita, only the huddled masses are shouting "The DIVA! The DIVA! The DIVA!" It's my boss, sounding a bit peeved and wondering why I'm not at the office.

"I'll be late! Deal!" I shout into the phone.

"You'll be fired! Twenty minutes!" he replies before slamming the phone down.

"Bitch," I bitchily whisper to myself. Then I head for the shower.

9:40 a.m.-10:45 a.m.
Any good Diva deserves a sinfully long shower, I figure, so I stand under the water until I prune, caressing my hair with seven shampoos and conditioners. While I shower, I trot through a selection of Aretha Franklin numbers, working up some choreography and whipping my attitude into a whirling Diva frenzy.

10:50 a.m.-11:45 a.m.
Divas must not only be impeccably clean, but made up every day like a supermodel. So I spend almost an hour doing my makeup. I still haven't figured out how to get these fake eyelashes off, but I figure the staples will rust and dissolve eventually. At any rate, I primp and preen in the mirror until I'm the portrait of catty Divaness. Rrrrrrowrrrr.

12:15 p.m.
I saunter into the office like Hedda Hopper on acid, clad in a long fur coat, a tight miniskirt outfit and boots with six-inch heels that reach up to just below my knee. My boss spots me and starts to laugh, so I slap him with abandon.

"Bitch," I bitchily whisper to myself. I bet no one laughs like that at Joan Collins!

1 p.m.
Forty-five minutes into the work day, I'm already fed up. It's so tiring living like a Diva! So I bark to my secretary, "Cancel all my afternoon engagements and make an appointment for me at the spa! I want the full treatment! Chop, chop!" It would have worked perfectly, if I had a secretary. More stares and laughs from my co-workers ensue.

2 p.m.
Having had enough of my disgusting workplace--can they truly understand the pressures of Diva living?--I arrive at the spa for a full facial and rubdown. I'm in full turboDiva mode, so as I storm through the front doors and toss my keys at the valet, I announce in my best Bette Davis impersonation, "What a DUMP." This does not endear me with the employees at Supercuts, nor does it impress the homeless "valet" who's currently racing off with my car.

2:30 p.m.
I've now recieved the worst haircut of my life--I look like Mr. T between trims--and my car is gone. I wildly flag down a taxi, and order him to return me to my home.

3 p.m.-8 p.m.
Divas need their rest, so I attempt to indulge in five hours of afternoon beauty sleep, hoping that through some well-timed Diva magic, my hair will grow back to an acceptable length. But the staples make it hard for me to keep my eyelids closed without scratching into my eyeballs, so I actually lie awake for five hours staring at the ceiling and listening to Gloria Gaynor's Greatest Hits on repeat. You go, Gloria!

8:15 p.m.
Time for dinner! A happy Diva is a well-fed Diva!

8:17 p.m.
Torn by self-doubt, I opt for the Kate Moss Diva dinner--a cracker and a cigarette--as opposed to the Aretha Franklin Diva dinner, which can run upwards of $17,000 a night.

8:20 p.m.-9:30 p.m.
The bouncers at trendy Chicago nightclubs show no mercy, so even a polished Diva like myself has to look her best. I spend over an hour touching up my makeup and deciding just what outfit is perfect for man-eating, settling upon a way-too-short mini, fishnet stockings and a tanktop. In retrospect, I looked like a white trash Jamie Farr. But the seven rum and cokes I had consumed since dinner helped to convince me that I was actually dressed to kill. Where would us Divas be without booze? A lot less happy, that's for darn sure.

10 p.m.-Midnight
The evening begins. The dank eroticism of the darkness seduces me into believing all this Diva hype for a change. We really ARE a different breed! After all, what other man could pull off a miniskirt like this in one of Chicago's trendiest clubs? Other than Ru Paul, a Diva's Diva, of course. Everything's going well and good, until a three hundred pound man in an ill-fitting business suit saunters up to me and starts flailing about to the techno beat. Too busy working hard at not caring, I hardly notice until his hand falls squarely upon my bum.

It's in this instant that I realize a few things about myself. First, men who dress too believably like women will often be mistaken for women. Second, unless you're a homosexual male, it's not fun to be mistaken for a woman. And finally, fat guys fight a lot better than you'd expect.

Within moments, I'm out on my ass in the street alongside Tubby, who's cursing me to Hell for ruining his night by resisting his ample charms. I hop up to my feet and soar down to my ass again, slipping on those six-inch heels. It's not as easy to walk in those things as you'd think. I swiftly hail a cab and demand that he take me home immediately! This Diva's ready for her four-post silken bed!

12:30 a.m.
I had expected to be out until four or five in the morning, at least. That's what Divas do--divorce their husbands who are twice their age and party like it's going out of style. Instead, I'm tossing and turning just after the witching hour. As I drift off to slumber, I ultimately decide to abandon my Diva persona. To tell the truth, it's not really all it's cracked up to be. Though I'm sure it's fun for some, it's much easier for me to be a fat, lazy man than a cute, perky and outspoken woman. And I'm sure that sometimes, Rosie O'Donnell feels the same way.