Nicole Holofcener

I have been living in a state of enormous guilt and anxiety for the past year. Not because I felt like I was doing something wrong, but because I was always afraid of being found out. I can't specifically say that I regret my actions. I don't. I thoroughly enjoyed writing these letters, living in the world of Dorothy Parker and Noel Coward, pretending I was something I am not. In many ways, this has been the best time of my life. It's the only time recently I can remember being proud of the work I was doing. But it wasn't my work, was it? I was hiding behind these people, their names. Because if I'd actually put myself out there, done my own work, then I would be opening myself up to criticism. And I'm too much of a coward for all of that. I've lost my cat, the only soul that truly loved me, maybe ever. And I lost my friend, who might have been an idiot, but tolerated me, and was nice to have around. And I've realized that I'm not a real writer. In the end, it was not worth it.

I trusted you. I don't know if you've noticed this, but I don't do that. And you have reminded me why that is.

I'm a 51-year-old who likes cats better than people.

This is a celebratory drinking session, not a wallowing one.

I have figured out a way to pay my bills, without shoveling shit, and it is a good feeling.

You pissed in a closet. Now I remember. Nobody could stop talking about the English gentleman...

Who was so shit-faced, he mistook the closet for the can. You ruined thousands of dollars worth of furs. Those old biddies didn't know what hit them!

Give me one good reason why that cocky shit gets three million dollars and you can't give me ten thousand? Are you that bad of an agent?

Yeah, God forbid you have to hear an adult conversation, Toni!