Ah, the warm feeling of kinship. It's a bond I don’t feel with many people, including my own family. My sister has an overachieving, type-A personality and a penchant for making me feel inferior. My mother replaced her children with a lovable yorkie named Pebbles that she hauls around with her wherever she goes. My stepfather owns a gun store, ‘nuff said.

I am the lone outcast. A sarcastic curmudgeon who loves to joke around and be the center of attention. I only feel this sense of kinship with a select amount of people. Chelsea Handler is one of these people.

I recently got the opportunity to read (actually, listen to, it was in audio format) her new book, Lies That Chelsea Told Me, made up of a bunch of chapters written by various people she has mercilessly messed with during her lifetime. This includes, but is in no way limited to, accounts of telling her writers that she was pregnant, giving an intern a fake spot on Dancing With the Stars, faking a flood at the Atlantis hotel and pretending to move an aide into her house to piss off another aide.

Reading about the horrors she has committed just to get a laugh made me feel not only proud but jealous that I had not thought of these pranks myself (sans the faking of a pregnancy). Muttering obscene things under her breath just loud enough so the person who brings her room service at a Tampa hotel can hear is not only hilarious, but in my opinion a life lesson in fearlessness and, more importantly, shamelessness.

In her new book, Chelsea Handler embodies a comedic god who has the power to make you cry but in the end would probably just take you on a lavish vacation to Cabo and get you sauced.

I love you Chelsea Handler. Keep doing what you do, and I promise to follow in your footsteps and be the best there ever was at making people cry.