Taken in by what surely is the most perfect cover known to books everywhere.

Prologue: I don't know who Samantha Irby is. I've neither read any of her former books or recognise her in any particular capacity from former works. So perhaps going into this one was a bit like piecing together a who-are-you from the set of essays found within this novel. I suppose I've managed to get a rough idea of who Irby is now thanks to this and a very quick superficial google search, but I still don't really know. In the case of these stories as well, they did seem rather plucked from Irby's brain at random, without much backstory for context.

Don't get me wrong. There were bits that I absolutely loved. Like Irby's attempts to understand being a homeowner for the first time--or owning a cat that would like to eat your face--or the general complaints of a human female growing older. It's all very open, sometimes even a little too honest for the sake of humour. (Boy, there's a lot of descriptions about shit in here. I get it, we all do it. But... I found it a bit squelchy.)

But there's a lot that just seemed so well and truly hilariously relatable.

I should write a girls' night out movie. But a realistic one, featuring people my age who have neck pain and no cartilage in their knees and spend the entire movie trying to calculate how to split a check and figure out how to tip across four different cards.

or...

Now when I go out I have to start gearing up for that shit at least three days in advance, and if I'm actually going to go through with it, it has to include both an ironclad reservation and a reliable seating arrangement.

Too true, Irby. I feel ya there.

3 stars for comedy, foul language, relatability, and squelchy poop references.