We Are Never Meeting in Real Life.

by Samantha Irby

Fred had a house, man. Which was like, LOLWUT. My previous life had been filled with so many gentlemen trying to get their dicks sucked in their childhood bedrooms (complete with superhero twin bedsheets, in one unforgettable case) that the first night I walked into Fred’s actual crib and met his actually spayed Rottweiler who came bounding down his actual stairs after we’d parked in his actual garage, I almost burst out laughing. I was peeking into cupboards and putting my ear against closed doors trying to determine whether anyone else lived there. That kind of shit was mind-blowing for a person who once dated a dude with six actual roommates. I was like, “How much is your seventh of the rent, thirty-seven dollars?!” — Anyway, Fred had a kitchen, and in that kitchen was a juicer and a fruit bowl that held seven perfectly ripened mangoes. I remember being struck by a half-empty bottle of Dawn propping up a sponge on the sink and thinking to myself how amazing it was that this was a dude who used dishes and then washed them. Listen, I don’t want you to think I was messing around with men who couldn’t tie their own shoes or whatever, but a lot of dudes in their thirties don’t have proper washcloths or fresh produce, so when I crossed the threshold of this actual house and didn’t immediately trip over seventeen barbells and a rat king of video game controller cords, I kind of lost my shit a little bit.