I'm not a stalker. I just like to use the internet to its fullest capacity. It would be a waste of modern day technology if I didn't Google image "Freddie Prinze, Jr.," "Freddie Prinze, Sr.," "Freddie Prinze, Jr. with Sarah Michelle Gellar," "Freddie Prinze, Jr. with new baby." It's perfectly legal to Google my interests, as long as I am not in China searching for "Freddie Prinze, Jr. in Tiananmen Square."
I have been told I have an obsessive personality. I get addicted to some good things, like bananas and working out and 24, and I get addicted to bad things, like chasing things I've lost and yogurt-covered pretzels and Facebook. Sometimes, I see myself becoming consumed with something, with someone, and know enough to stop myself, but I let myself be completely devoured by my own passion for the object of my obsession, be it Nutella crepes or 1990s mediocre teen romantic stars.
There was a period of time when I completely forgot about him. It was between 2000 and 2010, the end of the 90s until now, when I am about to embark on a new journey into the real, grown-up world when she isn't really all that and people aren't just head over heels.
I just started watching 24 this season, and my passion for Freddie has been rejeuvenated. He's the sole force of goodness in my life, the only solace I have after a hard weekend of enduring senioritis and seasonal allergies. Cole Ortiz starts and ends my week.
I don't really need a diagnosis, and I have finally accepted the fact that there is no solution. Who says an obsession is an obsession? I call it love.
Freddie, if you are listening, if you are out there, if you have access to this blog, then know that I am here if you need a summer catch.
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