My Dear Readers, a few weeks ago, when I wrote about Richard Armitage, “Spooks,” William Blake tattoos, and my un-concealable nerdiness, I told you that I don’t have celebrity crushes, that “I can’t be bothered wasting my time fantasizing about the perfectly formed pectorals of some actor I’m never going to meet.”

Well, after some consideration and reflection on my younger years, I realized I lied to you all.

It’s true that Matt Damon’s marriage to Luciana Barroso ended my daydreams about wooing and wedding one of Hollywood’s leading men — I’ve come to accept that not everyone is a Katie Holmes (thankfully?). But such was not always the case…

I’m waving the white flag. I surrender. I confess. I wrote a love letter to Jonathan Taylor Thomas.

and to Jordan McKnight… even though I couldn’t even  hum a single New Kids on the Block Song.

Once I moved out of my tween years, I went starry-eyed for Hugh Dancy and Hugh Grant while Russel Crow gave me palpitations (I always had a thing for fellas with an accent).

In early college, a friend and I would burn up study sessions planning how we would meet Ryan Gosling (hers) and Matt Damon (mine), win their affection, secure ourselves as Oscar dates, earn many-carat engagement rings, and live happily ever after. (Don’t judge too harshly… they were advanced calculus study sessions…we deserved the distraction.)

And then came December 9, 2005. Matt Damon got a Mrs. and I got a reality check. Now, rather than embodying the objects of my affections, hunky actors only typify my real-world “type.”

So if you know any “Richard Armitages” or “Gerard Butlers,” please, please send them my way.