Dear Zooey Deschanel,
I hope your primetime sitcom, The New Girl, is a big fat flop. Why? Because I think you’ve sold out? No, I don’t care about that and you never really had any cred in my eyes anyway. This time, it’s personal. It used to be that it was only my clients who watched indie movies that would go on and on in their sessions about how much I looked like you. Now that you went and got your ass on network television, it’s EVERYone. If I have to sit through another 50 minutes in which we should be talking about their childhood trauma and instead I’m having to smile and nod and act flattered while they compare me to you, I’m going to scream. Plus, you’re fucking with their projections of me. I had a client a few years back that watched all of your movies, pretending that I was the characters you played. It got weird.
Guilty of more than Frozen Yogurt. Guilty of Pixifying my life.
My clients are not always rooted in reality, they don’t need these kinds of distractions! Yesterday, a client told me about how she told her daughter her therapist was on TV, and they watched the show together, laughing at how funny mommy’s therapist was.
And you’re not even that funny. I’ve always written you off as an actress that plays Manic Pixie Dream Girl
s and is for some reason married to the most annoying singer in the music industry. I liked you in Elf, but you were blonde in it, so that didn’t mess with my life at all.
Perhaps I’m speaking on behalf of pale-skinned dark-haired blue-eyed girls who like to wear printed dresses everywhere. All we want is to be able to get straight-across bangs and not have it make us into a caricature. I have been wanting to revert to my 5-year-old bangs for years, and just recently I thought, “I can do it! Zooey D. is off the radar, it’ll be all good!” Then you show up on primetime, making badger faces. Why you gotta be stealing my style? Here’s proof that I was rocking the bangs-that-start-in-the-back-of-your-head, YEARS before you:
So, consider this a cease-and-desist. Your show better be cancelled by October 8th, when I get my hair cut. I’ll give you a pass until then, simply because you’re named after a character in my favorite novella. After then though, you better stop jocking my look. Or things might just get real.