Wow, No Thank You.

by Samantha Irby

My calls about my writing from NYC are always like, “Hey, dummy, this thing you wrote is a turd. Wow, do you need new medicine? We refuse to pay you for this ridiculous trash. Rewrite the whole fucking thing by tomorrow or we’ll see you in court.” And my calls from LA are like, “Hi, sweetie, great meeting feedback! They really vibed with you and totally want to have your babies!

I’d sat in many hip conference rooms with sockless guys in boat shoes trying to convince them that my Fat Diarrhea Show would make compelling television, and I’d received almost an equal ratio of meetings/calls from my therapist/agent during which he tried to let me down easy in his gentlest voice by explaining that “[redacted streaming service and/or basic cable network] just really isn’t in a comedy space right now.”