For someone who continually finds herself in the coolest of situations, I certainly am the most uncool person you could ever hope to come across. In fact, by all appearances, I really work at finding new and inventive ways to showcase just how not suave and how not on my game I can be.

Take, for example, the time that Jason Mraz performed an acoustic set in the lobby of my radio station. A set that, in my defense, I was NOT present for. As I, in one of my many failed attempts to be on-time for my air shift, was rushing across the area toward the studio, I was stopped by a waifish, pleasant young man. "Thank you so much for having me!" he gushed, pumping my hand with a tad too much gusto. "I had such a great time!"

"Oh, good!" I replied absently. "Congratulations on winning tickets to the show! I'm glad you enjoyed it."

I didn't understand the baffled gaze that I was met with until said young man was accosted by two rabid fans. Collecting the tattered remnants of my dignity, I smiled. "Alritey, then, Jason. I hope to bump into you again when I'm not retarded."

There's also the Ashlee Simpson show I attended several months ago where I had the privilege of being introduced to a sickeningly attractive group of young men that we all now know as The Click Five. It was a bit of an impromptu meet and greet happening in the upstairs foyer at the venue, and I watched, amused, as droves of young women lined up to get various limbs signed by the five guys. When there was a small opening to jump in and say hello, I was introduced to Eric Dill - or Captain Adorable, as I'm going to refer to him from now on. After having signed goodness knows how many arms, he was clearly in auto fan-obliging mode, and when I extended my hand to shake his, he grabbed his Sharpie and went to work. Before I could properly react, I had scribbles from my elbow to my wrist.

This would have been the opportune time to become obnoxious with glee, because, really, how often does a hot boy sign your arm?

I, for some reason, couldn't see past the permanent marker that was marring my formerly scribble-free arm. "Will this come off?" I asked Eric curtly, cutting my eyes up at him questioningly.

Hardly flattering, I'm sure.

And, of course, that was before I became acquainted with and developed a loyal (not to mention frightening) affection for the boys. Now, they could sign anything and I wouldn't complain.

Well, okay, maybe not anything. I wouldn't let them sign my kitchen countertops. I want my deposit back.

(Talked to Eric last week, incidentally. The tour with BSB is going swimmingly. The Click Five now has a phat bus that sounds amazing, but E declined to let me check it out for myself. I think he's onto me.)

((When did I start referring to people as the first letter of their name? How disgustingly Beverly Hills 90210 is that? My apologies, Dill.))

(((Ugh, last name only is even worse. Captain Adorable. Let's leave it at that.)))

Hilary Duff is the latest unsuspecting target of my fatal idiocy. She's currently on her Most Wanted tour, and somebody somewhere managed to convince her that calling me to do an interview for the PCC would be a good idea. For some reason, my reputation still fails to precede me. But that's a good thing. I'd like to cling to that phenomenon for as long as I'm able.

I drug my butt out of bed on my "day off" to be at the station at the ungodly hour of 3:25 in the afternoon so that I would be present to accept Miss Duff's call. And let me tell you that she is a prompt little thing! There was none of that waiting-around business that came with Ronnie Vannucci's call a couple of weeks back. At precisely 3:25 p.m., the hot line flashed like a dance floor at midnight.

We chatted back and forth for a bit. She was lovely. I was prepared. Things were going well. But then, I made the terrible mistake of glancing at her discography. I have no idea why I even printed this out. It had very little to do with anything that we were discussing, and really, could have only served to complicate what should have been a very simple interview to conduct.

Still, I glanced, and that list became my DJ kryptonite. Having glimpsed too much compact information at once, my brain instantly turned to oatmeal and oozed out through my ear. I caught what I could with my hands and tried to smoosh it back in, but the damage had already been done.

"Love the new song, Hilary!" I complimented her.

"Thank you!" she answered excitedly. (I imagine hearing that you're fabulous never gets old.)

"Yes," I continued, shovel in hand. "Fly is a great one!"

Silence.

Dig, dig.

Oh, gosh, I thought manically. What is the name of that song? I know this song! What's wrong with me?!

I began singing it in my head. Come clean, come clean on a Saturday night...

"I mean, Come Clean."

More silence.

Dig, dig, dig.

No, no, that's not right! I chastised myself silently. Let's see...the girl can rock on a Saturday night? No. Definitely no. Metamorphosis on a Saturday night? My lips are sealed on a Saturday night?

Oh, man. Wake up, Mysti, wake up.

Wait.

That's it!

"Wake Up," I said quickly.

"Thanks," she repeated flatly.

I shook my head sadly, and scratched the one Joel Madden question that I had off of my list. No way was I going to go there after that slip-up.

I feel certain that this is somehow the fault of The Killers' tour manager. I don't know how. I only know that it is. So, bite me, Jeremy.