Former kiddie star Hilary Duff has been seen all around New York City recently, but this is by far our favorite sighting. Freemans restaurant, shitfaced with friends, shrieking at another patron (also drunk).

It's long, but it's worth a read:

This was glorious –

So I'm having dinner with my lady friend at Freeman's last night. We're shooting the shit, catching up on some nonsense and recapping stories from last year. Mind you, I've had a few and my voice tends to carry as my blood alcohol level rises. As we're finishing our appetizers, my friend kicks me under the table, a subtle heads-up that Hillary Duff is walking behind me and is about to sit at the table next to me with a couple of her girlfriends. They are wasted. Fantastic.

After texting a few buddies, asking who exactly Hillary Duff is, I carry on with my stories and move on to my plate of scallops. After recapping a story about an ill-advised Vespa ride from New Jersey to Williamsburg I slowly start to notice that my story is being told in canon AKA Hillary Duff is imitating me. That's fine, she's clearly had a few, and, I think, maybe my stories remind her of Frère Jacques, and she just can't help herself. I move on, going on to the next story about the monstrous garbage man in the Lower East Side. From this point onward, the imitations increase in volume and, apparently, Hillary Duff does one of those pbbt things for approximately 1 minute, at which point I turn to her and just ask, "really?" I guess my acknowledgment and quick dismissal set something off, because Hillary Duff quickly transformed from the likes of Daisy Duck to Magica De Spell. She went nuts. Screaming, yelling, announcing her presence and exclaiming that I was ruining her dinner with my awful and/or loud stories.

Awesome.

The waiter, realizing Magica was not in a good place, pulls me aside. Noting that I didn't actually do anything wrong, he offers me a few rounds of drinks on the house, with the caveat that he's probably going to be an asshole to me given she's Hillary Duff and I'm an Indian dood. I clearly accept.

Upon returning to my table, I give her a quick smile and carry on to another story about why I hate Hellman's. Due to the admirable behavior of Magica, I couldn't really get to the end of this story – it's hard to maintain a coherent line of thought when a) Hillary Duff is yelling at you that she hates you and b) you're on your 5th glass of bourbon. Realizing that my Hellman's tale can be saved for a rainy day (e.g. today) and that I'm kind of fed up with being yelled at for no rational reason, I ask for the check and get up to leave.

Before I head out, I look back at the Hillary Duff, who is still yelling at me (which probably explains why she has lost so much weight, she doesn't eat her food, she just yells at people…guarantee she yelled at her plate upon my departure). Recognizing that I'm probably never going to see Hillary Duff and/or a human incarnation of Magica De Spell again, I finally give her my 2 cents – "you're not that important. and you need to get the f out of new york, because no one here cares if you're a celebrity." She says something in response, but, honestly, I was too high on my horse for it to register.

I tuck in my chair, shake our waiter's hand and bid adieu to Freeman's.

A glorious evening, indeed.

PS – "Hillary Duff" on the iPhone autocorrects to "Hilarious Duff"

So, there you go. Update: We've found another person at Freemans last night who has corroborated the account, but notes, "funny thing is, before turning her fantastic personality on [our tipster], it had been directed towards the table of 16 on her left."