Wow, No Thank You - Samantha Irby Page 0,5

going to the doctor.

11 a.m.: should i eat?

So here is the thing about carting around a bowel disease when you actually have to leave your home and do things out in the world: you’re always thinking, “What if I have to poop?” I’m not shy. My favorite thing to do in a public restroom, other than cruise for closeted gay politicians with whom to have loud anal sex, is to get comfortable in the stall with my butt directly on the seat and poop like a person who understands that this is a normal function of my human body. I don’t love to go number two during a night out on the town because: (1) guaranteed it’s going to be a mess, and (2) the bathroom at the club is probably not the most relaxing place to completely unclench your sphincter and get out a healthy, fiber-fortified stool. I’m not saying I haven’t had explosive diarrhea while holding up my ill-fitting sequined skirt with both hands, party clutch full of valet stubs and coat check tickets clenched between my teeth, while a line of drunk party animals whine collectively because there’s only one stall, but those were definitely emergencies. Which brings us back to my original dilemma: What is there to eat in this place that won’t cause me agony in the middle of the dance floor? I select a banana from the stash of emergency food I got at the airport and hastily shoved into my purse at the cab stand.

12:15 p.m.: quickly cycle through all five kübler-ross stages of impending-social-engagement dismay.

Denial: “Did I really tell homegirl I would meet her for dinner and drinks tonight, or is this a dream?”

Anger: “WHY THE FUCK DID I AGREE TO THIS I HATE GOING PLACES AND DOING THINGS WHY WOULD THEY EVEN INVITE ME?”

Bargaining: “If I go to this restaurant tonight, and I tell some jokes and act real sweet, I will keep this friendship intact, plus I won’t have to make up a transparent lie or sneak around trying not to like shit on Instagram, and also I don’t ever have to leave my crib ever again.”

Depression: “Is there anything worse in life than someone wanting to hang out with me? Especially in a fancy bar that serves ‘handcrafted’ cocktails? Maybe I can throw myself off the organic rooftop urban garden and end this miserable charade for good.”

Acceptance: “Fine then, I’ma just watch four episodes of SVU and eat saltines with my shoes on until it’s time to call a Lyft.”

12:30 p.m.: in the old days, i would do something to my eyebrows and nails.

I used to like to go out to get wasted with my friends and dance to house music, but also I was aggressively hunting for people to mate with. The year 2002 was a less cynical time, and the possibility of glancing up from my nine-dollar Stoli Razberi and 7UP with a lime to find myself locking eyes with my future soul mate while a Crystal Waters deep house remix pulsed in the background felt (at least to me, a very naive person) like a real thing that could happen. To prepare, in case it did, I would walk down the block to the nail shop after work and get a polish change (two coats professionally applied to my natural, bitten-down nails for half the price of a regular manicure, a dirtbag life hack) and an eyebrow wax.

Would anyone notice my scuffed red polish and brows stripped thin enough to slice deli meat in a strobe-lit disco? Definitely not. But what if someone fell in love with me on the dance floor and invited me back to the apartment they shared with nine roommates to drunkenly hump me before passing out at dawn? I needed them to know that I was worthy of their attention, and clearly the only way to do that was to pay someone to push back my ragged cuticles! Nowadays, who even cares? I don’t think my wife even notices that I have nails. Instead,