Dear Amy Poehler

Dear Amy Poehler,

My eight-year-old daughter, Ali, told me to write you this letter.

I was telling her about a dream I had, where you and I were hanging out.

“That’s ALWAYS your dream, mommy,” she said.

She wasn’t wrong. I frequently dream that we are BFFs; I have for years. When I tell my husband, “I dreamed that Amy Poehler and I…” he says, “Of course you did.”

Sometimes, you’re telling me how funny or talented I am. Other times, we just, you know, chill. Once in a while, Tina Fey makes an appearance.

I can’t help it: I have this feeling, deep down, that if we knew each other, we would be best friends.

I realize that this is the kind of thing that crazy fans both think and say. If you’re reading this, which is an enormous “if,” you are now probably THIS CLOSE to closing this tab in your browser, because hearing adulation from yet another stranger who thinks she knows you is almost certainly very low on the list of things you’d like to do today. But I’ve started and stopped this letter so many times over the years; I’m just going for it, this time.

“Why do you like her so much?,” Ali asked. She was in her “sleepy unds” at the time, which is what we call the underpants she sleeps in at night, in lieu of jammies. What can I say, the girl…