SELF-HELP FOR PEOPLE WHO AREN’T AFRAID OF THE RESULTS
Just Because I Have The Soul of a Short Fat Comedian Doesn’t Mean I Don’t Love Myself
Embracing my inner Danny DeVito

Everyone’s trying to find themselves. They’re looking in the wrong places. People want to look better, get richer, have more friends, be funnier, see more shows, walk with a better posture, fart less, and get invited out a lot.
We’re not all Beyoncé. Some of us are gassy, short, lopsided, four-nippled, brilliant nerdballs. I’ve had a lot of different haircuts and hair colors. I’ve been a redhead, a blond, a chocolate brunette.
I’ve been 5'4" and 5'9". Once I was 6'2" but people kept asking me to reach for high-up items at grocery stores and I don’t work at the grocery store.
My size has fluctuated from a 6 to a 10 and I never bought any new clothes. I’ve stood on a stage in a floor-length gown announcing an orchestra and gotten fired from a job as a tavern wench for dating someone my boss had a crush on.
I’ve been the girl who goes to foreign films alone and the girl who goes Marvel movies with children who eat popcorn from a sticky pile on the floor. I’ve sucked up escargot in Paris and inhaled Burger King milkshakes from the South Side of Chicago.
Who am I? I’ve seen the sunrise on top of ruins in Guatemala with a National Geographic photographer and had a romantic relationship with a guy who hated himself, got a dishonorable discharge from the Navy, and smelled like dirty socks.
Who is anyone? The only thing I can teach you from my journey of multiple personalities is it’s easier to be you than someone else. That’s not rocket science. I dated a rocket scientist. He also had no idea who he was. See how that works?
When I was younger, I thought the best thing you could be was beautiful. Do I feel stupid for thinking that? Sure, but I also feel like a human being who grew up in a capitalistic slothmarket full of snake oils offering better looks for more money.
None of us ever read a magazine showing normal-looking people mixing pink Nestle Quik into ice cream, while sitting on the kitchen floor in their underpants. If that magazine even existed, I would have figured myself out much sooner.
I’ve changed my hair, my body. I tweezed my eyebrows. I washed my face with something other than soap. I didn’t do much beauty work compared to a lot of people, but it was still a waste of my time. I want that time back. I promise to spend it more wisely oh leader of the universe, who’s vetting daily requests.
So, how did I get here, to this great place of superfluous knowledge and self-acceptance? What can I teach you about realizing you may be more Elmer Fudd than Charlize Theron?
I urge you to search your past before you started altering yourself for the pleasure of others. I compel you to ask your inner child who you would be if no one was looking?
If I am being honest, I suspected, early on, my soul was not of Gwyneth Paltrow but of Danny DeVito. I could feel him giggling through my veins. I knew my face was not meant to be decorated like a beautiful actress but hidden by the thick plastic glasses of a lunch lady.
I‘ve always known I’d rather have lunch with George Carlin than George Clooney. As a teen girl, I suspected comics were superior to Vogue. I wasted so much time making myself pretty when I should have been making myself a balding male comedian who is 147.3 centimeters tall.

