I am thoroughly enjoying Lena Dunham’s book, for it’s honesty and hilarity and relevance. But I can’t help shake this sense that she’s me, but better. Writing about what I should, but fiercer. The similarities between some of our thoughts and life experiences are straight up freaky. I used to have a recurring dream that I forgot I had a puppy, then found it in a shoebox underneath my bed, dying, but still alive; Lena dreams that she forgot she had massive amounts of cages of beautiful birds, which she also finds nearly dead. I went through a massive Polly Stenham ( a very young and very beautiful and very tragic British Playwright) jealousy phase, and thought for ten minutes about writing a play called Polly envy; Lena was also jealous of Polly, but actually met and befriended Polly, and got drunk at her house in London and puked all over her. I kept a sad food diary once for like five minutes, she did it for like a year and turned it into a chapter of her awesome book. Similar anxieties, but somehow more poetic. She’s in my life, but four years back, and better and more. And she remembers EVERYTHING, every detail, every pony tail, every smell, in a way that I wish that I could. Fortunately, I think This Old Queen’s just too old to let any envy of her success, success off of feelings I’ve felt, of of thoughts that I’ve thought, fester. Instead, I can just appreciate her for who she is: a more observant, less afraid Me. She writes intently that all women should write; that their stories are worth telling. And so, Lena, who is not listening or reading at all: continue to get after it, Girl. For the rest of us.