I usually feel pretty good about myself. I know what I look like. You’d bang me, but you wouldn’t blog about it. You won’t be Twittering “You won’t believe who I’m inside.” It’s fine.
There’s nothing more awkward than going to the first birthday party of a little girl when you told her mom to get rid of her. Because the kid can tell. “Here’s Tickle Me Elmo!” She’s like, “Fuck you!” I stand by my decision.
The kids didn’t call me Amy Schumer. They called me Amy Jewmer. One summer — I’ll never forget this — all the kids took turns throwing handfuls of pennies at me. I know! I was like, ‘Excuse me… this is awesome!’