Last night, Christina Aguilera and Adam Levine tag-teamed with the rest of Maroon 5 (ew, not like that!) to premiere their sizzlin’ new summer single, “Moves Like Jagger.”

Adam looked very unsurprisingly sexy in his sharp suit (FORESHADOWING MOMENT) and Legendtina looked–well, she wore a frumpy, unflattering white tee that continued her newly signature ‘perpetually six months pregnant’ look.

But they sounded rull good! I mean, even though they kind of clearly avoided each other on stage and had some sort of weird love-hate/mostly-hate chemistry going on. But they sounded good!

Then the performance ended, and THIS happened:

THEY READ MY TWEET ALOUD.

Yes, Muusers: Alison, of The Voice‘s Social Media Room-brought-to-you-by-Sprint fame, read my hard-hitting review of Maroon 5‘s performance: “Mr. @AdamLevine is looking all sorts of sexy in a sharp suit–killing “Moves Like Jagger”! #TheVoice” (To see it go down, fast forward to the 47-minute mark.)

Almost immediately, the recognition came flooding in: The emails! The tweets by the hundreds! The Facebook messages from long-lost family members and friends! “You’re famous now!” Famous, I began to think to myself. FAMOUS. The mere thought alone was smothering.

Without so much as a second thought, I slipped on a pair of over-sized Chanel shades and an ironic art smock by Obesity & Speed and quickly dashed out the door. “No! You can’t go out there alone!” my mother cried as I clawed through the swarms of wanting paparazzi clamoring outside, now buzzing with all the frenzied hunger and intensity of a thousand mosquitoes at the annual summer luau held at the Kardashian’s chateau.

But I quickly found the outside word cold–much colder than I’d ever known the world to be before. “Oh my God, you’re that Twitter guy from The Voice!” shouted elderly people and babies passing by in strollers. “I’M HUMAN!” I cried back. “HUMAN!”

Hopelessly, I became drunk–first on power, and then literally drunk, as I soon spiraled into an drug and alcohol-induced rager across southern Connecticut. Entering into the seventh dive bar of the night around 3 A.M., I was stopped by an overzealous bodyguard named Joey D with a bad attitude and an even worse sense of timing.

“Sorry, I’m going to need to see some ID,” he muttered impatiently, his fat neck muscles nearly bursting from his too-tight black tee. I shot him a quick side-eye. “I said,” he started again. But before he had another second to stutter the next syllable, I wound up and–with all my might–punched him square in the face. “DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM? MY TWEET WAS READ ALOUD ON THE VOICE,” I shouted as I raised my bloodied hand and formed a peace sign. (You know, like this.)

The rest of the night remains but a blur of dark alleys, rolled bills and anonymous sex. In the morning, I awoke to a freshly buzzed head, a Star of David tattooed just above my crotch and a broken umbrella scattered in pieces along my driveway.

And you know what? IT WAS WORTH IT.

IT WAS ALL WORTH IT.