Getting caught up in the whirlwind of Marc Jacobs' ultra-private sex life is probably the gay version of what it would be like to be Britney Spears' bodyguard: you spend hours coaching her into getting dressed to go to Starbucks before she breaks down and decides to go with the tear-away pants, crop top and hoodie combo; you spend every late night drinking room-temperature Smirnoff straight out of water bottles while looking through magazines at her competitors and listening to her obsess over how she's going to copy them; you get forced into hokey iPhone photo shoots everywhere you go and have to take care of all of her babies/dogs/STDs for her because she won't stop texting; you get scared she's going to throw something at you when you fail to chop up her crystal into lines fast enough; and some days you have no choice but to fear for everyone's lives and break down into hysterical sobs.