Not the many Romanian orphanages that rejected me.
Not the rejections from Cambridge and Oxford (the towns not the universities).
Not the rejection of, oh so many women.
Not the rejection of my sketches and sitcoms from agents because I don't have a production company behind me.
Not the rejection from production companies because I don't have an agent.
It's hope that's killing me.
And not Hope, that woman I dated for two months who is now trying to kill me.
It's hope with a small h.
Every time you send in a script that isn't even read.
Every call you make that doesn't get past the receptionist.
Every email that goes unanswered.
There is always that, hope.
Maybe this time.
I envy the hopeless.
Some day I hope to become hopeless.
As it is, I'll keep sending my sitcoms out.
One day I'll get a commission.
Maybe.
And then, I will hold my head up high, and ignore the bad reviews.
My name is Michael Beck.
I write comedy.
That's what I do.
I hope.