Do yourself a favor and read We are Never Meeting in Real Life by Samantha Irby. Her work belongs in your life. She knows of what she speaks. You can open this book to any page, begin reading and instantly want to find the beginning of her thread. Most books aren’t like that. I can open them to any page, read a bit, feel happy or irritated then close the book and get on with my life. Not so with Irby. She pulls me in and keeps me right where she wants me.
The essay ‘The Real Housewives of Kalamazoo’ will have you laughing, nodding along and peeing your pants all at the same time.
“I’ve owned four cars. All pieces of absolute garbage, and all purchased with whatever loose change I could scavenge from couch cushions and broken pay phones… I want to finally own a car with power windows that doesn’t have a fucking tape deck.”
And then there is this, her reaction to a foul mouthed little boy in West Virginia:
“I’ve never has a fistfight with a baby before, but I briefly considered it before reminding myself that (1) jail is real, and (2) in ten years the coal mine would introduce him to karmic retribution better than I ever could.”
There. Now go read it. You won’t be sorry.