We Are Never Meeting in Real Life.

by Samantha Irby

Somebody from work, pissed off that I’ve missed so many shifts, is gonna find my dead body next to a pile of dried-up baked beans I had been eating in the dark out of the can. In a robe I didn’t even bother to cinch shut because who the fuck is even here. I would be dead in my fancy black robe, tits splayed, tomato sauce congealed in the corners of my mouth as Netflix asks judgmentally, “Are you still watching this?”

I get even more stressed out at the thought of whoever finds my corpse discovering the last thing I googled was “Shark Tank bonus clips.”