Somehow, in all my voracious internet / authors / blogsleuth / stalker life, I did not know about Samantha Irby. It’s embarrassing. I kept hearing about We Are Never Meeting in Real Life and how great it is and how wonderful she is and I just thought sure, I’ll get to it and wow, great title, also how did I not think of that as the subtitle of my life. I have no idea how I missed her, since I have never been one to insist on anything age or culture-appropriate, but that particular wrong has been put right and now I have read every single thing she has ever typed. This sounds aggressive, but I have no intention of meeting her in real life, so I feel like it’s okay. Samantha runs the blog bitchesgottaeat, which, again, only angers me more because great title. My envy grows.



We Are Never Meeting in Real Life is a collection of essays put into a memoir and just released early this year. I picked it up out of curiosity and then devoured it in 3 days. I read everywhere I can possibly read – I have that tiny Kindle that fits into my smallest purse which I can bring into bathrooms during parties where I feel slightly uncomfortable (all the time, even my own parties) for reasonable periods of time – but one place I always read is in bed. Even if it’s only for five minutes, I fall asleep reading every night. This is really not a book to read in bed – at one point I was laughing so hard that I was literally rolling around in my bed (the cat essay) and it for sure postponed blissful sleep for at least an hour.



As you know, I love memoirs. Especially written by funny women and especially when they get levelly vulnerable. I read them because I can’t do them. Samantha Irby is in her thirties, from Chicago with a terrible childhood, with health issues and a cat has grudgingly agreed to keep alive. In the course of the book she goes from being a semi-frustrated single person to finding her life partner in hilarious form. She writes about her ambition and her progress in such an honest way. Most of all, she is amazingly talented as a writer. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard at a book, but I also cried more than I thought I would. More than that, I also felt deeply uncomfortable in a lot of areas. Irby writes with the freedom of someone who has zero to lose – and she really knocks it out of the park here. I remain in awe.



We Are Never Meeting in Real Life – Grade A-