![]() I would be dead in my fancy black robe, tits splayed, tomato sauce congealed in the corners of my mouth as Netflix asks judgmentally, “Are you still watching this?”Įven simple moments that demonstrate how Irby, who is now 38, is different from other women. How would a woman who eats and lives on survival mode and loves TV more than anything else be found? In a moment of dark humor, Irby imagines her death. She acknowledges how carefully she crafts her humor in her writing. ![]() ![]() With 14 years between writing her first and second essay collections, I found Irby’s content to be richer, more meaningful, even when on the surface it wouldn’t appear that way. Funny truth: a couple of months after that public reading, I returned to the bookstore and found this on the bathroom wall: Readers, myself included, think this title is funny because some of us have met Irby. ![]() ![]() In 2017, the same press published her follow-up collection of essays, We Are Never Meeting in Real Life. In July of this year, I read and reviewed Meatyby Samantha Irby, which was originally published in 2003, but got polished up and re-released by Vintage Books (an imprint of Penguin Random House) in 2013. ![]()
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