Tina Fey, man. What even is there to say? It’s her memoir. It’s really, really weird that I picked it up at all because there’s not much on this planet that I’m less interested in than celebrity memoirs. I’m an ISTJ, I’m interested in a lot of things, but not that. I reluctantly read Leah Remini’s book Troublemaker because I was curious about Scientology and it seemed like an accessible book about it, but read the parts about her life and career and behind the scenes stuff as fast as I could because I honestly just do not care. This is an entire book about that. I’ve been looking at Bossypants here and there for six damn years thinking “I dunno, it’s Tina Fey, maybe I should read it.” Which is kind of weird right there, because all I’ve really seen her in is Mean Girls and Saturday Night Live, but I just absolutely get her humor. Okay, and Baby Mama.
Anyway, I read it. It was a very straightforward celebrity memoir. I loved it. I loved Tina Fey when I picked it up and I loved her exponentially more when I put it down. Her dry and self deprecating humor is delightful, but I can’t imagine you’d be thinking about reading this if you didn’t already realize and agree with that. That’s really all there is to say here. If you’re a Tina Fey fan and you’re on the fence because you hate celebrity memoirs, you should read it.