The movie will be fine, I guess. It might even be God-Awful. I couldn’t care less.

But I wouldn’t waste my life away at this regional cineplex for any old movie. I’m here because My Favorite Celebrity is in this.

These days, the famous faces blur closer and closer together, as facial-surgical trends claim members of a famous generation like wildfire claims kindling. What distinguishes the latest rat-boy-of-the-month from the next? Or this fitness-goal-nepo-baby from the last? How, in this competitive climate, does My Favorite Celebrity keep this rear end of mine planted in that cinema seat?

They have to defy the odds, the elements, and the survival rates. They’ll have to go on a Humiliation Ritual Press Tour.

Call me desensitized, but the only thing that really keeps me tapped in for My Favorite Celebrity is to see them risk it all—day after day, for months on end. Maybe that performance had enough vulnerability to garner up some minor awards buzz. But the truly death-defying stunts of the press tour? That could get you an Oscar.

I want a whole slew of journalists, comedians, internet celebrities, and children with devastating backstories to do their absolute worst to My Favorite Celebrity. I’d really like for them to break through every last defense of the finest, most expensive media training in the world.

I want to witness the pinnacle of inelegance as they butcher that second language for us on live television. I want the stink bombs of their personal lives aired out in a room completely lacking in circulation. I need to get another comment on the comment that they made about the horrors of last week’s news cycle.

Let’s polygraph them while they’re at it.

Push My Favorite Celebrity so close to the edge that they let a tiny bit of that inner theatre kid slip out, just enough to confirm everyone’s suspicions of cringiness, turn public opinion and drive those box office numbers straight down. An icky whisper of “I knew it” ripples through the comment section. Their image? Toppled. Their natural good looks? Ruined.

They’ve already spoiled half the movie with all of those unflattering paparazzi photos in period piece adjusted urban locales. But my god, did you see that lighting, that angle, that—dare I say—bad side? So deranged and hideous—both the celebrity’s face and my ecstatic, unbridled reaction.

The next time I go outside, My Favorite Celebrity better be at a cruising altitude of over 450 meters in a hydrogen-filled death trap.

Every time I open my phone, I want to see them, the sweatiest they’ve ever been, guzzling the Scoville Scale’s molten rock tier and huffing pyroclastic flow for laughs.

Someone in the comments section who knows something a little embarrassing about them from junior high? Have them on the show. That beloved childhood teacher who inspired My Favorite Celebrity’s journey, their resilience, their spark? She doesn’t remember them at all. Then she dies.

Oh, so My Favorite Celebrity “just wanted to act,” huh? That’s rich. As if acting alone could ever win anyone a performance award. Fandom isn’t what it used to be. No more chilly magazine covers. It’s a matter of life and death.

And if they do it right? When the time comes, neither the ticket price, nor the runtime, nor the inevitably disrespectful behaviors of my fellow theater-goers could deter me from seeing it.

If I could, I’d tell them to keep up the good work. And remind them, as you can imagine, that I’ll be watching.