– I received a free copy in exchange for an honest review. –
Published by Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group on 30 May 2017
Goodreads | Amazon
Sometimes you just have to laugh, even when life is a dumpster fire. With We Are Never Meeting in Real Life., “bitches gotta eat” blogger and comedian Samantha Irby turns the serio-comic essay into an art form. Whether talking about how her difficult childhood has led to a problem in making “adult” budgets, explaining why she should be the new Bachelorette–she’s “35-ish, but could easily pass for 60-something”–detailing a disastrous pilgrimage-slash-romantic-vacation to Nashville to scatter her estranged father’s ashes, sharing awkward sexual encounters, or dispensing advice on how to navigate friendships with former drinking buddies who are now suburban moms–hang in there for the Costco loot–she’s as deft at poking fun at the ghosts of her past self as she is at capturing powerful emotional truths.
I chose this book because…
I’ve been reading more short story and essay collections, and I’m eager to find more. When I saw this one by a blogger, I was immediately interested. And I always love a good laugh. So this one by blogger and comedian Samantha Irby seems like it’ll be the jackpot! There are some parts of life you gotta laugh about. And there are some parts of life that aren’t so sweet. I’m excited to delve into these modern everyday adventures and “emotional truths.”
Upon reading it…
Hmm… I don’t know. I consider myself a pretty light-hearted person and pretty open to self-depreciating jokes. My sense of humour is from Tumblr after all. Those are my kind of jokes. But this was on a whole nother level, and the vibe I got from this book was quite a bit negative. However, looking at other reviews on Goodreads, it seems like most people really loved this kind of humour, saw it more as “raw” and “honest,” and could identify with it.
Being able to identify with these experiences was difficult for me, which was surprising, because the experiences outlined in the blurb seem pretty relatable, don’t they? I guess I just come from a completely different background. Of course everyone has different experiences, and I have read books that have shared different perspectives and that I could empathise with. But for some reason, I just couldn’t connect with this one, so I’m just going to attribute that to our different backgrounds.
However it seems like most people loved this book (Roxane Gay too!) so I’d still say to give it a shot and make up your own mind.
★★★☆☆
If you like this book, you might like…
The Art of Living Other People’s Lives by Greg Dybec, #GIRLBOSS by Sophia Amoruso, Startup by Doree Shafrir
No one ever tells attractive children how much they suck, then the rest of us get stuck with insufferable, narcissistic adults who can barely tie their shoes because someone else is busy either doing it for them or congratulating them on their effort. I do not have the energy to be in a relationship with someone exceptionally good-looking.
I like charisma and charm, but what I really need to find is someone who doesn’t get on my nerves but is also minimally annoyed by all the irritating things about me.
That is my basic understanding of relationships at this point in my life: that it all comes down to finding someone too lazy to cheat and who doesn’t want to stab her ears out every time I speak.
Then we’ll fall into a fitful, uncomfortable sleep, after which he’ll decide that he needs to go “home” or to “the gym” or to “ESPN Zone” or wherever you penises like to hang out in your free time.
But there I was, trying to fit the ocean in a plastic cup as it tossed and turned me in its waves.
When you break up with an asshole, it’s easy to just set fire to the shit and move on. But no one talks to you about ending a relationship that never sucked kinda amicably with your homie whom you still love to a degree and for whom you sort of want the best. No, you actually want him to be prosperous and happy. Not more prosperous or happy than you are, for sure, or all up in your face with it, but you aren’t actively wishing for homeboy to wind up homeless or hit by a city bus.
Maybe in this life you get all kinds of soul mates, multiple people who vibrate at the same level you do.
But this is the beauty of being beautiful: people just let your dumb shit rock.
First of all, I didn’t know how to order coffee. I still goddamn don’t, because it is gross and unnecessarily fussy and I am a grown woman who really could not tell a cup of bad coffee from a good one. I will drink coffee if it has a pint of cream, nine hundred packets of real sugar, and comes with a shot of insulin. Which is why I don’t drink coffee.
Not being able to deal with your life is humiliating. It makes you feel weak. And if you’re African-American and female, not only are you expected to be resilient enough to just take the hits and keep going, if you can’t, you’re a Black Bitch With an Attitude. You’re not mentally ill; you’re ghetto.
Never mind that I was basically living in squalor with my mother’s half-dead corpse, subsisting on the kind of cereal that comes in a five-pound bag and whatever nutrient-rich meals were being served for free hot lunch; I was diagnosed as having “an attitude problem.” The Black Girl curse. So I rocked with that. When you’re a kid it’s sometimes just easier to go along with other people’s definitions of who you are. They’re adults, right? So they’re smarter?
Then it’s easy to just write the depression off as an irritation at the dummies I have the misfortune of sharing the planet with. “I’m not depressed, dudes who ride unicycles in rush hour traffic are fucking idiots,” or “Nothing is wrong with me, the real problem is all these people mindlessly texting while their dogs shit in the middle of the goddamn sidewalk.”
All this might be easier if I could punch something, but I’m not a punch-something person. I’m a “sit in the dark in the bathroom with a package of sharp cheddar cheese slices” person.
Can’t we all just decide that if you’re over the age of twenty-eight you don’t have to worry about being skinny anymore? Thin is a young woman’s game, and I’m perfectly happy to chill on the bench this quarter with a chili dog. And if I happen to burn a few calories while texting, then great.
I know what I’m supposed to do; I just need someone to tell me how. Every single day until I die.
I’m always amused when they encourage you to eat “instead” foods, like eating an apple when you really want to rub a bacon cheeseburger all over your boobs is a fair substitute. Why not instead list which ice creams have the least calories, by the pint?
Eating with any sort of intention is terrible, especially when you (1) work hard all week, and (2) have trouble with plebeian tasks like grocery shopping and basic caring for yourself.
My alarm goes off at 5:50 a.m. First thing I do is check to make sure I’m not dead. If I am, in fact, still alive, I usually sob uncontrollably until there’s nothing left in my tear ducts but salt dust, then grope blindly through my apartment to the bathroom where I say a little prayer for a hole to open beneath my building and swallow us all.
The drawback was that everything I ate made me have the kind of farts that make you check your underpants for burn holes afterward, the kind of farts that sear your asshole as it exits, the kind of farts that have teeth.
And I don’t need sympathy or special consideration because, ultimately, who even cares? You hate me, and I hate me, too. We are on the same team. I guess what I’m saying is that maybe we could all just mind our own fucking business for once, and that when you can actually see a person’s scars, maybe be a pal and don’t pick at them.
And that’s okay. I am fat and I am mentally ill, and those two things have been intertwined since before I even knew what those words mean. If this is how I’m going to die, then why not just let me. Maybe there is a way to solve those problems, but maybe I’m tired of trying. Maybe I stopped going to swimming because I was afraid of what would happen if, after months of treading water, it still didn’t work. Maybe I quit yoga because I was afraid of what would happen if I lost a ton of weight and that still didn’t fix my insides. I can’t afford therapy, but I can buy a sandwich.
My life would be the kind of sitcom that’s more sit than com.
And how are the scars still so easy to find lurking under the surface of my skin?
These kids are going to find out real quick that my perceived intelligence is a web of lies built on a crumbling foundation of charm and quick wit.
Danger and contraband are the currency of youth.
I spent too much time trying to mold myself to fit the romantic ideals of humans who proved themselves unworthy of that effort, and I regret it.
I have grimaced through expensive meals that were little more than adorable art projects on a plate…
I don’t really feel alive unless I’m actively wishing I was dead.
I know my blog is hilarious, but I’m not that smart in real life! If you run up on me in the grocery store YOU ARE GOING TO BE DISAPPOINTED because (1) there is probably diet peanut butter in my cart, and (2) it sometimes takes a lot of staring at the wall in contemplative silence to come up with these jokes and my off-the-cuff stand-up could use some work.