The cubicle that is diagonal from me contains a woman with an obsession. Her obsession? Keith Urban. That’s right, Keith Urban, that Aussie sprite with luxurious locks and a few mean electric guitar riffs. How do I know about her obsession? She has wallpapered her cubicle walls in black and white printouts of him. It looks like an extra large locker in a junior high school.

Now, I don’t care that this woman has her obsession. I kind of like to think that obsessive love for another person who will never know you exist is the secret of life, but I’m concerned that this one-sided love affair may do something to me. I can’t walk to or from my cubicle without seeing several pictures of the little man, and you know how some allergies develop from too much exposure to something? Well, I’m afraid I’m going to be watching the American Music Awards, and Keith Urban will appear onstage and I’ll have a spasm and then projectile vomit all over the screen.