I wanna be famous because I want to make the world laugh so hard they forget their ex’s Netflix password—or at least the reason they were crying into a pint of ice cream last night. Let’s face it, life is rough. We’ve got inflation, awkward Zoom meetings, and those weird little paper straws that disintegrate before you finish your iced coffee. Humor is my weapon of choice in this battlefield of chaos. For me, comedy has always been my emotional duct tape—keeping me together when everything else was falling apart. And let’s be real, laughter burns calories, so technically, I’m offering you free cardio. You’re welcome.

I deserve to be famous because my comedy is as raw and real as your internet after you forget to pay the Wi-Fi bill. I don’t just tell jokes—I expose the ridiculousness of everyday life, the awkwardness of human existence, and the absurdity of our collective suffering, all while wearing stretchy pants. My material is like a therapy session with no co-pay, a way to remind people that no matter how bad things get, we’re all in this dumpster fire together—and sometimes, it’s okay to roast marshmallows on it.

If I become famous, I’ll use my platform for good. I’ll launch a campaign to replace all dentist office Muzak with stand-up specials, because why shouldn’t you laugh while someone’s drilling into your molar? I’ll host comedy shows that raise money for mental wellness organizations, proving that giggles are the best antidepressants (side effects may include snorting and unattractive crying). I’ll even partner with therapists to create a hotline where you can call and hear me tell dad jokes until you feel better. Fame wouldn’t just give me a stage—it would give me the chance to remind the world that sometimes, the best way to heal is to laugh until your abs hurt and you accidentally pee a little.