Dear Rory Gilmore: I know you are not a real person but for my own sanity I need to write you this letter that you will never get because, again, you are a figment of Amy Sherman-Palladino's imagination.
I know, I know, I shouldn't throw those words around lightly, but girl, I have receipts.
First of all, you treat the men in your life terribly. Think about Paul — poor, poor Paul.
And let's talk about the fact that while you were dating Paul, you were fucking Logan WHO IS ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED.
Let's pivot to work here, Rory, 'cause this might be hard to hear, but you suck at your job.
You know why your big meeting with Condé Nast kept on getting pushed? Because they're a huge conglomerate and not every editor can meet with someone who had a couple of good freelance articles.
Oh, and when you finally got that meeting and picked up a project, only to fall asleep while interviewing someone and then sleep with another source?
Then you were like, "Lemme stoop down to Sandee Says' level," and you were shocked they didn't hire you even though you brought no ideas, enthusiasm, or any kind of emotion other than "You're lucky I'm gracing you with my presence?"
Let's also talk about how you're kind of a bitch to your mom.
Finally, Rory, you are a complainer. I understand this is ironic rn because I am complaining about how much you complain but COME ON.
Rory, I'm sorry. I hope I wasn't too brutal. But I also hope you get significantly less terrible the next time we meet.