I never got attention from hot guys.

Even when I was at my hottest, circus 7th grade, with highlights and Steve Madden platforms,

I was more of a magnet for the socially disenfranchised and organ trail computer game set than for more traditional hunks.

And for the most part I was fine with that.

I picked my crushes wisely.

Skinny Boy's obsessed with super-ate film, a cellist with buck teeth, a tiny philosopher and a sweater that may have actually been addressed.

I knew I could represent something to these boys.

Something beautiful.

Understanding, salvation, a still growing pair of boobs strapped to a lady who didn't want to murder him for trying to touch them.

I rounded the bases with boys who looked like dobbie the house self and ceased to even consider the Abercrombie men of the world as viable options,

as if I were a practical woman looking for a condominium within my price range.

When a male model did, once, show interest in me freshman year of college I approached it skeptically,

like someone being offered a dubious investment opportunity.

It turned out to you that a girlfriend in Arizona was desperately looking for a crash pad that wasn't his Zulander model apartment.

Ponzi scheme.

But being famous confuses everything.

Suddenly, you're operating with a new currency, false but powerful, that re-levels the playing field you've grown accustomed to living on the downward slope of.

Famous women, women in general, have a far-kinder memory of what it was like to be just a girl in the corner.

At least I did the first night I ventured out to an Emmy's party.

The year was 2012 and girls have been on the air for about six months.

I was reveling in the attention like a kid in a Christmas pageant, but also nervous action-culture was going to jump out from behind a white van and scream, PUNKED!

Without getting too entourage on your asses, I'll just tell you that Emmy weekend is a real clusterfuck.

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