This is shocking.

Five years ago I walked into Ricky’s office and said, “you know who would be good to do our videos, Sam Reich.” I vouched for you and up until this morning I had always been deeply proud to have had such foresight in recommending a man I believed to be a talented straight shooter. But now, all these years later I discover the ugly truth; that from day one you only had one item on your agenda: Yourself.

I would have expected some nobody from production to answer this email. I expected, “Oh sorry man, we were shooting in the greenroom and it was hot. - Steve-Cozzarelli-look-a-like” But to get an email from Sam Fucking Reich, son of a noted economist, head of a thriving team of creatives, was an absolute shock. First Sarah leaves, and now this. I honestly don’t know what’s become of this place.

How could you? I’m sorry, but you know full well what that fan means to me and yet, here comes Sam, the prince of CollegeHumor, freely claiming prima nocta with it. The level of disrespect is absolutely shocking. Perhaps I should help myself to your tennis balls or acoustic guitar whenever the mood strikes me. Perhaps I should leave the guitar in an inconvenient location, dozens of steps from your desk. Perhaps I should FAIL TO MENTION that I even moved it in the first place, sending you into a fit a panic whence you return from your pampered production break.

We used to be friends. Maybe never the best of friends, but friendly colleagues. We could work together. We could have a beer and laugh about this crazy ol’ world and what strange paths we chose to take through it. We planned our adventures together and relished those moments, just two kids with the weight of a digital world on their backs, trying to make rhyme or reason out of why the breaks had fallen our way at such a young age. And we grew together, we hired our friends and we built an empire with them. Us. Together.

But those days are gone.

You closed that chapter when you stole my fan and refused to return it. You besmirched all those drunken nights on rooftops, screaming at the city to ‘do your worst, motherfucker!’ I can’t think of those moments now. Not at a time like this. Not a time when a “friend” has proven himself to be anything but.

Maybe I was just naive. We were so young and I threw my heart and head open to any and all who wanted to step inside. You were one of those people, Sam. I let you in, I trusted you to not break anything. But like a bull in a china shop, you tore through my heart and broke it wide open. I can handle losing a friend to death; we will all be called onward to the dark at some point. But to lose a friend to deceit is a burden far heavier than death. For that person lives on, he exists as a cruel reminder of what once was but can never be again.

Why, Sam? Why throw it all away for a fan.