Someone once told me the fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I always thought it was through his pants, but it seems as though my cynicism has proved me wrong. Especially when it comes to the heart of one Clayton Aiken. I think there's a chastity belt underneath his pants.

I decided to try the stomach approach. My plan was to make 7-dozen donut holes and sneak them backstage for Clay to snack on. Unfortunately, my kitchen was not prepared for the cooking of sweets. It was, however, prepared for the cooking of seafood, so I called Alyssa to come over. She knew her way around a kitchen almost as well as she knew her way around a man's pants. I told her so. She cursed me out until I took it back. Then she reminded me of that fateful night in Ryan's Porsche. "I make one mistake and no one ever lets me live it down!" I yelled.

We made a big batch of shellfish, balled it up, and dipped it in dough. After being fried they looked just like donut boles. Only they were better. Cause they were made with love. Or as Alyssa put it, "The secret ingredient is fanatic."

She was not attending the concert with me, but she wanted to borrow the use of my car. Elijah Wood was in town and was overdue for some stalking. She drove me to the arena. I was on time, had plenty of money, and good seats (3rd row!).

After Alyssa dropped me off, I canvassed the outside of the building for a good entrance. Nothing seems suitable, so I just walked in the front door. They took my ticket and directed me where to go. I went in the opposite direction.

There was a roped off area down at the end of a dark hallway. I walked around nonchalantly, innocently whistling, until the coast was clear. Then I ran back there, the shellfish balls rolling around in their bowl. I snuck into a room crawling with people and lined with tables of food. I didn't see Clay, but I did see a box of Krispy Kreme donuts on the nearest table. I dived under it just as Jerome passed by.

When he was out of sight, I reached a hand up and snatched the box of donuts under the table. I ate every last one and then filled the box with the shellfish balls. There was no way Clay wouldn't open this box. He loved him some donuts. I put the box back on the table and crawled out of the room. Out in the hall, I saw a security guard and took off running. Luckily, he didn't see me.

I stood in line to pay $30 for a shirt and $10 for a poster that they didn't even bother to roll up and rubber band. Jerks. I made a note to myself to inform Clayton of this.

I found my seat relatively easily and for the first time in my concert going experience, some moron wasn't already sitting there. Tonight was going smoothly. I was finally going to see The Clay.

The show was supposed to start at 7:30, but by 8:00 the house lights were still up and the crowd was growing restless. A man came out on stage and informed the crowd that "some hack put shellfish balls in Clay's donut box".

"That was a thoughtful gesture, whoever did it!" I yelled above he crowd.

"Not really." The man said. "Clay's allergic to shellfish. He's on his way to the emergency room."

"Damnit! That's right!"

A lady a few rows away pointed a finger at me. "Was it you? Did you give him those shellfish balls?"

"Of course not! Why would I do such a thing?! That would be crazy!" Every pair of eyes in the arena was shooting death darts my way. The scent of the urge to kill drifted into my nose. It was coming from all over. "Oh crap." I jumped out of my seat and ran, 10,000 Clay fans on my tail the whole way home. A few blocks before I reached my home, I turned and ran down an alley. Ryan's black Porsche screeched to my side. I jumped in. "Go go go go!" He raced down the alley and lost the crazed crowd before we reached my apartment. When he pulled up front, he begged me for a good night kiss. He said we could consider this a date. "Hell no!"

He leaned over to my side, with his lips puckered up. Pat's hand smashed through the driver's side window and grabbed Ryan by the neck. He screamed like a girl.

"Hands off, Seacrest!" Pat yelled. I jumped out of the car.

Ryan wriggled his neck free from Pat's grasp and sped off.

After I got back inside and had caught my breath, I went online to the Clayboards. There was already a 12-page thread about me. "Evil girl tries to kill Clay." My picture and life history, including the night with Ryan in the Porsche, were now public knowledge. 5 hate sites had already sprung up. "They work quickly." I muttered to myself.

I deleted 27 emails from Ryan, including several that were just the lyrics to 'Can't Smile Without You' and went to bed.