Rachel Bilsonned.

I’ve only ever written one love letter, and the boy I gave it to responded by “coming clean” about the fact that he had a girlfriend, and had the entire time we knew each other, and had just asked her to marry him.  He confessed that his dalliance with me was a symptom of cold feet.*  Then he told me that he’d used bits of the love letter, and other correspondence from me, to serve as dialogue for a female character (with a man’s name) in the script for a television show pilot he’d just sold to Fox for $7,000.

(Some of you already know this story.  I know, I know.)

Do you know what it’s like to watch the new Fox show lineups on the off chance that this show is actually made, and some man-hating bartending actress ends up broadcasting my personal correspondence??

Now that guy was a stupid motherfucker.

I do not write love letters anymore.

*This is when I coined the term “Rachel Bilson” as a verb, as in “Don’t fucking Rachel Bilson me” and “Are you Rachel Bilsonning me right now?!” meaning, of course, don’t treat me like Zach Braff treats Rachel Bilson in that awful, awful, AWWFUL movie The Last Kiss, which is about pretty, successful, happy assholes who fuck around before they get married and make up for it with a Coldplay soundtrack.