(“Sure, you look good in that” - she’ll snarl at my elastic-waisted QVC jeans - “I mean, if you think so.”)
… She eats and craps and scowls at me judgmentally from her perch atop my pillow, silently critiquing my outfit choices through narrowed eyes. (“No, she’s never going to pick Marcus or Jonathan, but she will keep them on life support for however many episodes it takes to satisfy the NAACP.”) She imagines a more realistic show, one in which “elimination ceremonies are taking place in the bedroom.” (“Blows air into my vagina? NO ROSE.”) Irby gets us thinking about how not real reality TV is while we look on the ground for where our jaws have fallen.Įvil cats also piss Irby off, and she hilariously anthropomorphizes her own, a stinker named Helen Keller, in “The Miracle Porker.” She also takes the show to task for how it tries - laughably - not to seem racist. When I beg you fourteen times to read something I’ve written, then get mad when you tell me what you don’t like about it and I call you an uneducated idiot piece of shit. When I am blasting “More and More” by Blood Sweat & Tears at seven on a Sunday morning while cleaning the kitchen and fucking up your mom’s frittata recipe. When I fall asleep in the middle of that movie you paid extra to see in IMAX.
Also, when I’m drunk and refuse to shut up about getting McNuggets from the drive-thru. She needs a partner who can love herįirst thing in the morning.
The first chapter is a mini-autobiography disguised as an application to get on The Bachelorette, but Irby isn’t trying to be America’s new sweetheart or some perfect wife. And you know what they say about misery loving company. Irby shows you that someone else is having as tough a time of it as you are, maybe even tougher. Her audience is anyone who enjoys Larry David, Nora Ephron, and Luvvie Ajayi the depressed the angry the anti-social those who are generally disappointed by life not meeting their extremely low expectations or just anyone who wants to be taken on a hugely satisfying emotional journey. There’s job crap, dating nonsense, homophobia (Irby’s bisexual), racism, self-esteem issues, and a body & mind plagued by illness. In the essay collection We Are Never Meeting in Real Life, Bitches Gotta Eat blogger Samantha Irby uses a killer sense of humor to do battle with a life that undermines her almost every step of the way. ‘We Are Never Meeting in Real Life’ by Samantha Irby
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