I remember going on a press junket. A limo was sent to my house. When I went to leave my apartment, my door knob literally fell off my door. It was in my hand. I was wearing these expensive clothes I bought for shit like this press junket, clothes someone else instructed me to buy so I would look decent, clothes I felt completely uncomfortable and fake in. I was about to head outside to a limo, so I could go give canned answers that were coached to me for a bunch of press outlets that couldn’t have cared less. And I was holding my door knob in my hand, and I couldn’t figure out how to reattach it. The door would not open. So I had to climb out my bedroom window, past my unframed Morrissey poster, and down my fire escape. I thought I was going to slip and break my neck and get more press for dying after getting my big break but before it actually debuted. I somehow didn’t kill myself – which is a miracle considering that I trip and fall just from walking almost every day – and dropped down into the area behind my house where we threw all the trash. I picked myself up, made sure none of my trash or the trash of any of the dozens of Hispanic families who lived in my building was stuck to my shitty fancy fake clothes, and I got into the limo. And I laughed about it the whole way there – I wasn’t really the guy in the nice clothes. I was about to give hundreds of interviews, and not one of the people who ever saw or read anything in any of those interviews would know that less than an hour earlier I was legit rolling around in a giant pile of garbage. I wasn’t a sitcom star – I was still the sad sack with the ridiculous life who had to leap into his own garbage pile to get into the limo some assholes had rented for him.
— Chris Gethard, from his piece on the upside of failure The Chase Is the Thing and the Thing Is the Chase
