Like any person who once was a pre-teen girl, I got through the awkwardness of puberty by fixating on a celebrity crush. While my peers kissed posters of Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Jonathan Brandeis, trying to visualize the real thing, I loved David Duchovny. All my older-man fantasies began with Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. His pictures (torn from Sci-Fi magazines as opposed to Tiger Beat) lined my bedroom walls. I knew where he went to school, his birthdate, his sign, his favorite food. I cried when he got married, cried harder when he had kids that weren’t from my womb. As I advanced into my 20s, I was no longer preoccupied with the personal life of an actor 22 years older than me, but the fixation was still there. And thirteen years after my crush blossomed, I actually met him. And it sucked. There are a few benefits to being a gossip columnist and one of them is going to glitzy Hollywood parties where there’s free food, alcohol and celebrities. Usually I just stick to ogling the food and booze, since famous people are boring close up. None of them are fighting Nazis or making sensual love or spouting one-liners, so who cares. Except at this particular party, David Duchovny was there.

It took me two hours of staring at his morose countenance to work up the courage to go up to him. He was getting out of his chair, heading towards the door, when I timidly stopped him and told him my name and what a huge fan I was. He said thank you and shook my hand. Houston, we’ve made contact! And then it was over. That’s it? That’s what I waited 13 years for?? To mumble out hello and not grab him by the collar and lick his face? To smile politely and not slip him my email address, Duchovnite@aol.com, for some late night cyber sex? It was the most disappointing climax of my life, including the time I thought I had an orgasm but it was really just me hyperventilating. Sure, David Duchovny knows I exist now – but he doesn’t know I have a French maid outfit with his name on it. If my 13 year-old self was around today, she’d kick me in the shins and write bad poetry about it. You know who else you should never meet in real life? The people who make the music you like. The conversation is never as good as you imagine it will be. When I met Alanis Morissette at an autograph signing, I was head over feet (worst pun ever) to meet my music idol. I thanked her for coming out – I meant on the music scene, not the closet. Now Alanis thinks I think she’s gay, and I can’t ever listen to Jagged Little Pill without remembering what a retard I am.

If I’m ever famous enough to have fans, I’m becoming a hermit. That way I’ll never disappoint anyone.