Oh Sloane. Sloane, Sloane, Sloane.
You and your "mordant and mercurial wit from the realm of Sedaris and Vowell."
How I loathe you.
You who have been compared to Dorothy Parker.
You whose very name brings bile to my throat.
From your days as a lowly book publicist (wait...she was a BOOK PUBLICIST!?!?) to your nauseating rise to New York Times bestseller. Oh Sloane! I am onto you!
Sure, your penchant for plastic ponies forced me to stifle a chuckle. And your Ursula cookie--well, let's just say that one hit a little close to home. The butterflies? Sure. I want a very rare one to escape the Museum of Natural History and follow ME home. Who doesn't? But this is not from whence my hatred gained your name.
On no, Miss Crosley. My dislike burns far deeper! I refuse to pay homage! Not to your Judaism, to your vegetarianism, your neuroticism or to an other of your collective "isms." No ma'am! Because I--I, MISS CROSLEY!--KNOW YOUR SECRET. And it sickens me.
Long have I envied those inside of your genre but out of your ilk--the Jennifer Lancasters and the Laurie Notaros. The Allie Broshes. Those witty women who, when Life delivered a shitstorm de clusterfuck, cried vehemently, "Not today, Life, you vile mother!," threw up two well-manicured deuces, and subsequently penned some of the most poignant pieces of feminine hilarity heretofore seen.
"Do not go gently into that good night" indeed!
But you, Miss Crosley. Yooooou and your Booky Wook. Were your tales born out of hardship? Out of life experience?
No. No Miss Crosley.
While Jen Lancaster and her Gucci bag were getting bitter at the unemployment office, where were you? When Laurie Notaro was fighting the good fight with "fat money", where were you? And when Allie Brosh's psychotic fit over a fish nearly catapulted her childhood into foster care, where the hell were you?
You were writing an email.
Writing. an. email.
While others took the cruise through Hell in a very stylish handbasket, all you-- Sloane freakin' Crosley--had to do for recognition was write an email. A silly little work email that just happened upon the electronic desk of someone who could help you with a book deal.
Lucky to have so many connections, working in a publishing house and all. And as a publicist, no less. Yes. Very fortunate indeed.
So you see, Miss Crosley, I loathe you not for a lack of writing talent. Talent you certainly have. I detest you not for your floral/toilet paper book covers or the ridiculous endorsements provided by your "friends" in the industry. (Jonathan Lethem and Jonathan Ames? Seriously gentlemen?) No, Miss Crosley, I abhor you because it was just that easy for you.
Sure, you're not the first person in 'the industry' to whore out your connections to make a name for yourself. And given your pleasant little cutie pie puss, I'm almost certain that no one this side of Oz (myself an obvious exclusion) holds it against you that what you lacked in life experience you made up for in milking the system. And it worked. In spades. Or boss-shaped cookies. Either way...
It is now 2 a.m. Miss Crosley, and I am afraid I have to attempt to bed down for the night. You see, I am a poverty stricken grad school student who must attend an orientation tomorrow for a full-time job that will pay me via meager stipend. But again with the difficult life experiences. I forgot. You don't do those.
And I am reasonably sure none of this concerns you or your cornucopia of ponies in a drawer.
But, if in some alternate universe it does mean something to you, I'll share with you one writing lesson I learned over my years of hard knocks: readers LOVE it when you refer back to your previous works. So, Miss Crosley, keep touting the exploits in "Cake" and "Number." I know I will.
Oh, and on that note: Miss Crosley--have you ever heard of Carly Simon?
She has a song I think you'd like.