I woke up this morning from a dream that should change the course of my life. John Oliver was there, and he was my boss. He asked me what I wanted to do for Last Week Tonight, and I told him I could be whatever he needed most - whether that was handling press and reputation management, drafting content for the show, or just prank calling Mike Pence every few hours. We chatted about the foibles of humanity. We shopped for groceries together. It was the happiest I’ve ever been.
This was the second dream I've had about working with John Oliver. Realizing it wasn’t true was the most heartbreaking experience for me since Trump was elected. If by even the slightest chance my subconscious grazes the realm of the prophetic, I needed to try to reach out and tell the world how I feel.
If there’s any shred of a possibility that John Oliver is reading this now, I have this to say: All of the terrible things in the world that keep me awake at night, every douchey comment or self-serving asshole continuously contributing a little more bullshit to the air we breathe, every news story that seems so wildly fictitious that to wrap the sensible mind around it is borderline masochistic, all of it, together, would not be enough to ruin my outlook if every day I fought for Team Oliver. Even if my job is sweeping up the confetti after a visually effective yet environmentally negligent bit, or deep cleaning the mascot heads by hand in an empty room while trying to ignore my irrational fear of mascots, or simply handling every tedious ass-pain tasks associated with bringing Last Week Tonight to the people of the world, it would be the most rewarding job I can imagine.
If I can dedicate all my energy and goodness toward anything in this world, it's you, John Oliver. It's always been you, you goofy British bastard.
#NoticeMeSenpai