We Are Never Meeting in Real Life.

by Samantha Irby

Have you heard of those thunder shirts for dogs to help them stay calm during loud storms? They should be made for people, to help us stay calm in situations when we have to listen to someone explain at great length why they are too busy to own a TV set.

I always thought I would eventually end up with a woman. Men are too taxing, too mischievous, too restless, too naughty, and I don’t want to spend my Chico’s years with my stomach tied in an anxiety knot waiting for a dude to leave me for someone younger.

I thought for sure I would be spending my stress-incontinence years picking moist dog food crumbs out of my aging shih tzu’s slobbery beard while earnestly considering circuit court judicial endorsements in my local newspaper, but now it looks like I really do have to learn what molly is and how to know if your kid is on it.

These kids are going to find out real quick that my perceived intelligence is a web of lies built on a crumbling foundation of charm and quick wit.

I choose to attempt suicide the old-fashioned way: listening to a hot dude who doesn’t want to fuck me ask a bunch of questions about the friend I came here with. I chug my whiskey in the hopes that my death from alcohol poisoning will be immediate and painless.