I’ve known Chelsea Handler since I was twenty-six years old. I think of her as a big sister. She will scream and shout when I score a home run, but she will also bust my balls if I get a bad haircut.
She’s unrelenting, she’s passionate, she’s a fucking pain in the ass, and I love her.
There is something about her grit—her refusal to back down—and her determination to push through that doesn’t just inspire me but makes me feel stronger.
As a person, I am riddled with fear and imposter syndrome. I am someone who is afraid of jumping off high dives, of roaming into dark forests, and of sleeping in the dark with the closet doors open. Chelsea is the friend who has dragged me into the jungles of Peru; she’s pushed me off the bow of sailboats, and she’s spooned my body as I’ve hyperventilated through the night.
She’s someone I’ve known and loved not just in this life but many lifetimes before.
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