I have developed an unnatural hatred for Randy Moss. It's not quite at the Joel Monaghan level of unnatural but it's not far off - and that's hard to explain away when the object of your irritation lives some 15,500 kilometres away and is someone you've never met.

But the well of disdain for Moss runs deep because the player considered the best wide receiver in the NFL has screwed up all three of my fantasy teams. Moss was the highest-rated wideout in fantasy terms preseason as he was a breakout player in a high-octane offense, led by one of the great quarterbacks. I was in the market early for a receiver; it seemed like the perfect fit.

It was a decision I have lived to regret as Moss has brought nothing but heartache, misery and despair to The Doug Fluties, D'Brickashaw This and the Goose Point Greens. He started as the top receiver in the league but, because of his mouth and his attitude, he was quickly traded from New England to Minnesota only to be released four weeks later when he was subsequently claimed off waivers by Tennessee.

Deep down, I am sure Randy Moss has caused more distress to me than either Bill Bellichick or Brad Childress. Moss has personified bust this year. When I'm not fretting about how he will adapt to a new system or worrying about what he will say next to grate one of his coaches, I am left staring at single-digit score after single-digit score. It has become difficult to sleep at night.

One of those pathetic single-digit scores would have been appreciated back in week four, however, when a Moss howler cost the Fluties a much-needed win. Heading into Monday Night Football, I trailed by only three points with my opponent done and Moss remaining for me. Three lousy points. Moss didn't even need a touchdown. All he needed was 30 yards and I would have the win.

Of course, he didn't get the required points. He didn't score any. He laid a giant duck egg, dropping a touchdown pass and meandering through the match without catching a ball. Sitting in the sports theatre at Star City Casino, I oscillated between uncontrollable yelling and the sombre howls of self-pity until two beefy security guards escorted me from the building.

Yet Moss cannot be dropped because, as every fantasy junkie knows, such desperate action will be treated with fierce condemnation by the fantasy gods. The ghost of Randy Moss will haunt me forever, stalking me all season before kicking me in the guts at the worst possible time. If there is one thing worse than having Randy Moss on your team it is kicking him off. This is the terrible life of the fantasy addict. There is no way to win.

Involvement in fantasy sports is far too serious to be considered fun and far too time-consuming to be thought of as a hobby. You are enticed by the bright lights and the thrill, promising yourself that you won't become a fanatic like so many others. But before you know it, you are scouring for information on little-known fullback David Milne while engaging in a bitter email exchange with your fellow managers - while the irritated stewardess in charge of boarding calls for you to urgently report to gate No.9 as you are holding up your flight's departure.

It was all so much easier when you could just cheer on your team without worrying about the fantasy ramifications of a Jamal Idris try or a Jack Riewoldt mark. It was all so much simpler when you could just watch an episode of Rockford Files rather than spending the afternoon scouring the box scores of the west coast NBA games hoping Chris Kaman is grabbing boards and not shooting too pathetically as the Clips host the Bobcats in what can only be called a god-awful game. It was all so much less stressful when you didn't spend week after week checking NSW Cup team lists waiting for Shane Rodney to return from yet another serious injury. It is doubtful Rodney's wife knows as much about the Manly backrower's knee as I do and it is even more unlikely that she cares as much.

I am in too deep now. I am a fully fledged fantasy addict and it is too late to escape. I have three fantasy NRL teams, two fantasy AFL teams, three fantasy NFL teams, a fantasy NBA team and a fantasy NBL team. I have previously managed multiple cricket teams and horse racing stables and the wheels are in motion for both a fantasy golf team and a fantasy politics league (Christopher Pyne is the sleeper there). Draft day is the most exciting of the year and there is nothing like the thrill of winning that trophy, even if it is secured while sitting in the corner of a pub by yourself as the surly publican is forced to watch the Monday night NRL game despite the fact he lives in AFL heartland.

Famed sportscaster Dan Patrick said he once finalised a trade during a commercial break of the Sportscenter he was hosting. That is the life of the fantasy junkie. You are constantly involved. There is no rest. Getting the possession count from the Port Adelaide-West Coast match is more important than seeing your close friend exchange vows. You miss birthday dinners because you wouldn't dare miss the Cowboys-Sharks thriller because, hell, you have Reece Williams and James Tamou on your team and you sure couldn't miss those two giants of sport run around.

This is no way to live. But there is no other way. There are no half measures in fantasy. To be involved is to be an addict. That is just the way it is.