Though I hate to be a hater (just kidding; I love it), I can’t lie: I have a tiff with TIFF. Maybe it’s a little love/hate, as the swag seems sweet and I did one year touch Matt Dillon’s bulging bicep. But come the light of day, the swag’s revealed as ten pounds of ads and one turd-like organic energy bar. I vaguely recall Matt refusing to sign a ripped pack of Belmonts (asshole). My head hurts from those damn little cans of champagne, and I know tonight is another long lineup of wannabe starfuckers and yet no starfucking. So here, some fantasy ‘tude for thought while your feet bleed into your pumps.

Scenario Best: Looking fab next to the open bar, Matt Damon struts up and whispers in your ear. “Has anyone told you you just like Kate Beckinsale?” You coyly smile and ask if anyone’s ever told him he looks like Matt Damon. He laughs, appreciating a rare wit that surpasses that of any Hollywood starlet.

Scenario Real: While searching for your drunk friends on a sticky dance floor, a guy that looks like Matt Damon – but old – stumbles over and leans in. “Anyone tell you you look just like Sarah Palin?” he yells. “Who doesn’t?” you scream back, but he doesn’t get it. He mutters “fuck you, bitch” and hits on the girl behind you.

Scenario Best: You’re perfecting your lipgloss in the bathroom when Lindsay Lohan gracefully floats out of a stall. You play it cool and casually mention you dig her Dolce & Gabbana. “Thanks,” she purrs flirtatiously, “you’re so nice.” Bonding over the inherent Canadian niceness, Lindsay asks if you wanna party later, and winks.

Scenario Real: You’ve been waiting in line for half an hour to fix your running mascara. Accompanied with a double-sized black dude in aviators, LiLo finally teeters out of the bathroom, crying and texting at the same. You want to tell her you love her sequin-y minidress, but instead just awkwardly stare at her thighs. Jayron the bodyguard calls you a creep as he pushes you out of the way.

Scenario Best: Strolling outside Whole Foods, latte in hand, you come face to face with your 80s sexual awakening icon Mickey Rourke. He hasn’t aged a day, and when you tell him so, he thanks you and asks for a hug. You mention what a fan you are of his numerous quality films, and don’t mention 9 1/2 Weeks.

Scenario Real: On the third night waiting in the VIP section at the Brass Rail, Mickey finally arrives. You shyly push through the polyester-clad dancers to get near enough to say, “I’m, uh, a big fan of, um, you know?” Your mind goes blank. Before you realize it you’re going on and on about the scene where Mickey feeds Kim a fridge. You suddenly notice you’re the fattest girl in the room, and say so. Mickey gives you a pity hug with an ass squeeze to signal it’s time to go.

So what’s the real-life lesson here? Swag is garbage, otherwise they’d sell it. You don’t look like Kate Beckinsale, even if someone says you do. Matt Damon is married, if you care about that kinda stuff. Lindsay likes sparkles, pick-me-ups, and fedoras – but not you. So save your dignity and make Toronto starfuck-free, cause sometimes a touch-feely snuggle with Mickey Rourke just isn’t worth it. I can’t even watch 9 1/2 Weeks anymore without feeling dirty. True story.