People think that we famous writers have it easy, but it’s not always true. This weekend is especially crazy:

6:30 a.m.: My hot houseboy Antonio wakes me by slapping his bare, muscular chest. “Get up, sexy!” he says.

7:00 a.m.: I eat breakfast while watching Antonio, who washes dishes while wearing only an apron. He knows I’m looking and purposely gets suds all over himself.

7:45 a.m.: While walking my pooch, Sinbad, along the beach in Malibu, I run into my neighbors Courteney Cox and David Arquette. “See you at our barbeque next week, Gary?” they yell while jogging by. “Love ya, wouldn’t miss it!” I yell back.

10:00 a.m.: At the health club, my trainer runs me through a grueling workout. My arm starts to hurt – not from lifting weights, but from waving at everyone who waves at me.

12:00 noon: My agent and I meet some TV execs for lunch. They’re pitching a reality show loosely based on my now-famous “Tao of Gay” column.

1:30 p.m.: I have a phone interview with a writer from People, who gushes on about how much he loves my column.

2:30 p.m.: I try to work on my next column, but keep getting interrupted by phone calls with heavy breathing. “Antonio!” I yell, “We need to change this number … so tired of these damn stalkers!”

5:00 p.m.: My agent takes me to dinner with some executives who want me to endorse TrimSpa. They need someone to take over now that Anna Nicole is out of the picture. “But I don’t even use diet products,” I say. “That’s OK,” they explain. “You’d just need to keep some half-used products in your kitchen in case anyone checks.

9:15 p.m.: I decide to skip the bars and visit Adam4Adam. Although my face is disguised and my occupation simply says “Writer” instead of “Famous Columnist,” I still receive 238 messages. Damn, somehow I’ve been found out again. It seems that if I’m ever going to find a good husband, it won’t be through such pedestrian methods. I make a mental note to join the Gay Millionaires Club instead.

11:00 a.m.: After a quick swim in the pool, I shower and Antonio helps scrub my back. I love how he’s always there for me.

12:00 noon: Antonio and I hit Rodeo Drive, where we eat and buy new tuxes for the Oscars that night – I’m taking him as my date. I sign some autographs for tourists and a crowd starts to form, but thankfully our limo rescues us just in time.

2:45 p.m.: Antonio and I are at the salon getting haircuts and facials when we see Jennifer Hudson. “Girrrrl!” I exclaim. “You’re looking fabulous! And you were amazing in Dreamgirls!” She laughs. “Why thanks, hon! But you know, I wouldn’t be where I am now without my gay fans!”

While I secretly agreed with her, I winced inside. If I hear one more celebrity claim they owe it all to gay people, I’ll kill myself. On second thought, maybe not – that would be an early death.

4:10 p.m.: As Antonio and I step onto the red carpet at the Kodak, we’re nearly blinded by flashbulbs from the paparazzi. Normally I’d be in the pressroom, but this year I’ve been nominated for a new award: “Best New Column with Future Major Motion Picture Potential.” Sadly, they won’t be televising that award due to time limitations, but my agent has thoughtfully coordinated a live account on my fan Web site.

10:30 p.m.: My Oscar night is over, and I didn’t win. I wasn’t too disappointed, though, because I got to sit next to Leonardo DiCaprio at the after party. Plus, an Oscar nomination will further boost my cachet and maybe even get me a hot date to Courteney’s party next weekend.

11:25 p.m.: Exhausted, I fall into bed, already thinking of my next column. It’s tough being famous.