we are never meeting in real life. essays by samantha irby

Samantha Irby knows better than to drive down I-55 and visit where I grew up. Them motherfuckers can be crazy down there. I can say that. My downstate upbringing and abbreviated marriage to a man who spent the 80’s in Chicago made me familiar with the landscape she describes, and I felt the chill and ridiculousness of it. All of it. Five stars. Maybe I should put stars on my blog?

I’m not special for saying you should read this book- many, many people already have. (NYT Bestseller) One of my writing partners incredulously asked last month in one of our weekly Zooms, “You don’t know Samatha Irby?” 

No.  

There’s lots of stuff I don’t know. More than what I do know, in fact. And I’m trying to know less: I’ve spent the last five-plus years unlearning, actually.

This isn’t a new book. You already know I’m not an early adopter; I came out at 45 for fuck’s sake. And even then I had to spend over a year thinking I was “gay”: before I realized I am “queer.” 

Have you seen how many books are in bookstores? I’ve been trying to catch up my whole life!  

And so I got the first book propped on the shelf with her name on it because I may be late but I’m not stupid. Yellow is my favorite color and I love cats.

And it was perfect timing. What I really needed was a break. A break from trying to get it right, a break from striving, a break from the ridiculousness of a second Trump presidency the 21st century, a bestie to not brightside my shitty fucking day. 

No, fuck that. It sucks. We’re all living in an imperialistic bullshit white supremacist society with most idiots sleepwalking around crashing into us as we precariously balance our mental health. 

I needed to sit in my goddamned underpants after I read Care Work and before I read read Mutual Aid and be grateful that people like Samantha Fucking Irby and my writing partner exist.

Thank you, Samantha Irby. I needed the LOLs. Laughter IS the best medicine. Now, I have the strength to go on.