Wow, No Thank You - Samantha Irby Page 0,37
down my shirt.
“Are you familiar with my work?” What kind of fucking asshole says shit that way? It echoed off the walls of my brain, mocking me. Dude, I don’t even talk like that. I meet people all the time who breathlessly come up to me like “HI, I LOVE YOUR STUFF” and I play it cool (“Oh my gosh, thank you so much! You’re the sweetest!”), and then they shout “BAD FEMINIST REALLY CHANGED MY LIFE” right before their husband uses his phone to capture the exact moment my heart breaks in half like Ralph’s in the “I Choo-Choo-Choose You” episode of The Simpsons. But at least in those moments, as I gratefully lap up the dregs of effusive praise intended for Roxane Gay—who, by the way, does not look like me at all—the person talking to me has at least an idea of what it is I do. Am I smart enough to write sharp cultural criticism? No! Am I fat and typing words on a computer? Absolutely, yes, and I would love to accept that glass of wine you are mistakenly sending to my table because you enjoyed my talk in Australia so much!
Why couldn’t I just have said nothing, or played dumb and waited for him to point to the Sears Tower on my card? Why didn’t I just say “Evanston, technically,” and wait for him to ask what the Hancock Building looks like? Am I ever going to stop writing the horror movie I have been starring in since the day I was born?
Today, Emily and I share an office. It’s above a coffee shop that doubles as a moped warehouse, and even though I pay rent, I still have to pay full price for an oat milk latte, which, if I were to go there and pretend to work every day, could cost me twenty-five-plus dollars a week. The office is a big, airy space with shiny hardwood floors and gigantic windows that we’ve filled with plants and crystals and candles. I ordered another CB2 desk (an office one, for my office, rather than my at-home one, which is for piling shit on and forgetting it) and bought a fancy stapler even though I never, ever need to staple anything, and they look right at home next to Emily’s draft table and rolling cart crammed full of oil pastels and gouache materials. She writes and illustrates gorgeous children’s books about little glasses-wearing babies who explore the ocean and learn about weather, and I do a lot of anxiety-snacking while writing about my prickly labia and feeling self-conscious about the music I choose for us to work to. We have a strong, solid relationship.
We talk a lot about how beautiful Meghan Markle is and what podcasts we listen to, even though talking about talking is dumb, but we have fun. I know that her littlest kid is in kindergarten now and doesn’t wear the bunny ears anymore. She probably knows me well enough to tell you what to get me for my birthday, and she’s been in my house enough times to tell you where we hide the best snacks. I like working next to her every day. We drink a lot of carbonated water and take a lot of CBD tinctures that don’t work. I somehow survived the awkwardness of that early attempt at courtship and we’ve settled nicely into the very comfortable next stage of friendship, also known as “do you want this old lipstick that looks weird on me/can I borrow five dollars until the end of the week.”
A few months ago I was entering my debit number into an unsafe website to buy some trash I definitely didn’t need and noticed that my card was on the verge of expiration, and with a pang of despair in the center of my chest that humiliating sushi date came flooding back to mock me. There was no way I’d be issued a Chicago card to my adopted Michigan address, right? Would my umbilical banking cord finally be severed? The day the new one showed up in the mail, I almost threw the envelope away because it looked like something from a bill collector, and I peeled the flap open slowly, braced for the reveal of my Built Ford Tough card or whatever it is they have here. Blessed be, they