Jennifer Love Hewitt

It seems like, over the past two weeks or so, I’ve been running into Jennifer Love Hewitt all the friggin’ time. At Costco with the wife. In CVS. At the supermarket tonight. Generally, I don’t notice the cover of Us Weekly—a magazine I rate right after Popular Douchebag on my favorites list. But for some odd reason, wherever I look, there’s perky Jen, peeking out from this cover:

For those of you who aren’t down with with ol’ Sarah Reeves (ie Hewitt), Us says she was recently dumped by her fiance, who tired of her nonstop wedding planning. Though this certainly seems like a good enough reason to dump your future wife, I’m skeptical. Odds are, if the fiance kicked Hewitt to the curb, it wasn’t because she was an insane wedding planner—but because she’s simply insane.

Why do I say this? Because all celebrities are insane. They truly, truly, truly. truly. truly are. I’ve met many in my day as a writer, and even the relatively normal ones shrivel up if they’re not the center of attention for more than three minutes. I think back to an assignment from seven or eight years ago, when I spent five days with Molly Sims on an SI Swimsuit shoot. Molly, myself and a crew of, oh, seven or eight were all holed up at a lodge in Meeker, Colorado. She was nice and friendly, but she clearly knew she was the shit, and we were the wipers. You were expected to laugh at her jokes, comment on her looks (My take: Meh), etc, because, well, she was famous.

Now, having spent several years mechanically butchering lines on a canceled TV show, I’m willing to bet Sims only drinks bottled water and valet parks her car at a mall. Why? Because fame is the world’s worst drug.

Well, save for crack.