I have a confession to make.  Not the "I-ate-the-last-chocolate-chip-cookie" type, but a full-blown, "Real World," dark room revelation that is likely to spur some horrified gasps from Perez Hilton and the viewers at home.  Though I have spent the past two years and two months working as an assistant aspiring to one day acquire the title “big wig television executive” with the corner office and corporate card, I have another secret fantasy.  No, it does not involve Justin Timberlake.  Or maybe it does, but not until the fourth act.  Though it pains me to admit it, when I moved to Los Angeles I kind of, sort of, maybe thought I might be "discovered" and become Julia Roberts famous.

I blame it on the movies.  They ruined my chances of ever being satisfied by a regular boring, non-chiseled abs man because of Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It, and they have similarly ruined my chances of being satisfied by a job that doesn’t involve me being filmed, photographed, or begged for an autograph.  Signing my bi-weekly time sheets does not count.  And neither does getting caught on my office’s security cameras “adjusting myself” in the elevator.  Though I am a bit of an exhibitionist, I’m not convinced I want to be famous for correcting the alignment of my underwear on YouTube.  I’d much prefer being featured doing so in US Weekly’s “Stars They’re Just Like Us” section.