I’m writing to you even though every inch of me is screaming noooooooooo. I’m so deeply ashamed that I’ve even started this letter…and as I continue this sentence the loathing grows. Everything I type is vile, clever garbage and I want to shoot myself (oh God more garbage) to stop my brain from continuing…
But. I’m going to do it. I’m going to keep writing.
I want you to know that I think you are funnier than Tina Fey.
I know she’s your best friend and comedy comrade, I know you may find this comment rude because if someone told me I was funnier than my best bud I’d be like “don’t be shallow” but I’d also secretly be like “thank God you noticed.”
From the outside, it’s clear that she’s more famous than you. I bet her book did better. I’m sure 30 Rock was more successful than Parks and Rec, and you never even got to play her besty on her own damn show.
But you kept going.
I try to read every “Woman in Comedy” autobiography ever written and I’m an incredibly critical person so I just wanted you to know- from my standards you are a superbly better writer than her. Deeper, funnier, wiser and more page-turny. I also think your greatness is also your weakness- you’re so authentically nice.
And just because you are successful, have a TV show and mega cred- you still need strokes to keep your head above water. I get that.
Kinda like when I won 1st place in the Royal Conservatory of Speech and Drama competition in Sackville, New Brunswick in 1995 for my dramatization of The Tao of Pooh. I was on top but I still wanted my mom to take me out for dessert after. Right?
And let’s not kid ourselves. This is the dream. The mother-fucking goal. To be seen. Appreciated. Noticed. Laughed at. Valued for our talent. To feel the warm and fuzzy support of EVERYONE LOVING US EVERYWHERE.
But there are some pieces missing in your book, and in Tina’s and especially in Lena Denham’s waste of time shit-lit. And I want to ask you about that?
All the famous ladies I read- write about how tired they are and how hard they worked and the luck they had but I want to talk about the embarrassing NEED we feel along the way. The “I’ll do anything” itch. It’s real and its gross but I’d like us to be more open about it.
I’d like to write a book, not about the fame, but The Fame Search. (Which is tough, because to write about The Fame Search, one must have completed it and become famous- no?)
…about the years of waitressing and stealing money from friends and the years of true and utter despair that it just. won’t. work. out. The pills. The try-hard embarrassing shit you pulled to get noticed at the parties. The poverty. The never-ending striving. The couches you’ve slept on and dudes you slept with.
I want to hear about the time the producer asked you to suck his dick and the weird injections you don’t ethically believe in but do anyway because if you want in the game, ya gotta play. I want to hear the truth of how you got to where you are because I know it wasn’t easy. I hope it wasn’t easy, and I don’t get why that side of the story never gets revealed.
Now I’m rambling.
Mainly, I just wanted you to know that you’re funnier than Tina, even though she get’s more magazine covers and interviews. I’d say it to her face too, at an awards party, and she’d laugh but I’d be being serious, and then you’d take me by the arm, steer me away and say “no you d’int!” and we’d teeter off for a smoke.
Hey, here’s an idea, let’s start a correspondence and turn it into a coffee table book?
See, it’s way harder to sound funny and genius before everyone knows you. Everything I write comes across as trite. But fuck it right. Fuck it in the ass.
Your “famous on the inside” friend,
Ps. I hope you like the pic’s I got a friend to photoshop of us together, just so you know I’m not crazy.
photoshops by www.joepolygon.com