Actress Renee Zellweger has revealed that the happiest time in her life was being a waitress with nothing more to worry about beyond that of serving tables and correctly reading the names off beer bottles.

From SAWF:

“I did some work on a farm and in a bar – they were the happiest times in my life – I had no worries apart from serving tables,” the Mirror quoted her, as saying.

“When I first went to Hollywood, I remember working for two years in a bar. I was happy when all I had to worry about was the labels on the bottles,” she said.

Now however, Zellweger is constantly worried about the paparazzi who dodge her every step as they try to get an exclusive picture of her.

“Why am I not a ‘look at me’ girl? When I face walking on the red carpet before a premiere, I am terrified by the wall of photographers screaming my name. It is so violent,” she revealed.

Ok everybody, pity party for Renee Zellweger on three. One… two… three… aaaaaaaawwwwww!

Feel better now, Renee? Good. Now go fuck yourself. Or better yet, go out and trade your life with that of a middle-aged single mother waitressing out of some truck stop in the desert. Yeah, sure, it might take a lot of convincing – like maybe a whole ten seconds – but I’m fairly certain she’ll cave in once she realizes she’ll be trading a life full of poor wages and immeasurable chauvinism for a couple million dollars and an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. Just be sure to get the whole thing in writing in case she ever changes her mind and wants her old life back. I hear that’s pretty common among rich folk looking for attention.

Special Business Proposition for Renee Zellweger: For just one million dollars, I will come over to your dreary Hollywood mansion dressed as Mel Sharples and proceed to call you ‘dingy’ for one full hour as you pretend to shuffle plates of food between your kitchen and dining room for your collection of stuffed animals posing as customers.

But wait, that’s not all. For an additional $250,000, I will hire a prostitute from Houston to come over and yell, “Kiss my grits!” every time I call her a backwoods whore. How about that for diner authenticity? Yes, I know. It does sound like the happiest hour of your life.