**AITA for thinking Matthew Perry's memoir "Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing" is basically just a 300-page "whoa is me" from a guy who got paid $1M per episode to literally sleep in a soundstage?**
So, hot take incoming: I finally read *Friends, Lovers...* and I have to be honest, I'm getting some major "I'm not like other addicts, I'm a *complex* genius" vibes. The entire prose is him describing himself as this tortured artist who was too good for the sitcom that made him a goddamn billionaire. He name-drops his struggles like they're a flex ("Oh yeah, I was sweating through my suit on set because I was detoxing, but the audience *still* laughed!") - okay, sir, you want a cookie for surviving your own Netflix special?
TL;DR: Keanu Reeves gets a bizarre, unhinged callout in the book for... existing? And Perry spends 800 pages telling us he was a sad boi while cruising around on a yacht. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here trying to figure out how to afford eggs.
The real tragedy? Not his addiction history - but the fact that he wrote an entire memoir and *still* managed to make the audience the villain for expecting him to be funny. Thoughts? Or am I just being a cynical Gen Z who doesn't understand the 90s? 🍕💉