Wow, No Thank You.

by Samantha Irby

I like to wake up naturally, gripped by a heart-pounding panic as the sun slices through my eyelids at noon, when it is perfectly aligned with my bedroom windows. I wince against the sun’s garish rays, a sick feeling spreading through me. It dawns on me that I have already wasted an entire day. AGAIN.

Being very complicated and deep, I was enamored with this idea that love was difficult and stressful, and that torrid relationships fraught with passion and rage were exciting. This was, of course, before I knew how tiring life can be for an adult.

Sometimes I get super tender when I think about how dumb and naive my child self was, and I wish I could go back and hug her while also reminding her to tuck in her shirt.

A handy trick is to think long and hard about what the person who hates you would realistically add to your life if they were to actually be a part of it. Most people really do have absolutely nothing to offer you.

There is no such thing as total control. And if you’re a reasonable person, you probably don’t even really want it. It’s a lot of work being in charge of a whole other person and their Facebook likes.

Like every other poor kid with sick or addicted parents, I knew that I needed to make myself small, that my problems should remain my problems only.

I can’t watch This Is Us because even though the brothers are hot and the dad is a smoke show, in the first couple episodes the fat girl doesn’t get to be much more than “fat,” and wow, no thank you!

When is the last time you watched a show with a fat woman who didn’t at some point reference a new diet or some ill-fitting old jeans? Also this idea that fat people only get pity sex from recent parolees or whatever is bullshit; I’ve never fucked a repulsive loser ever in my life. JUST THE HANDSOME KINDS OF LOSERS.

I have a running inner monologue recounting every horrible thing I’ve said or done since I can remember first publicly humiliating myself, and the voice never shuts the fuck up or goes away even for a minute. Even my dreams are anxious.

You hear people talking about the importance of seeing “someone who looks like me” And it’s like “okay, sure, who cares, shut up.” It has always been obvious in regards to race, but with size I guess I’d never really thought about it that much because, well, that’s just the way things have always been.

But for me, Shrill was an opportunity to put a bitch fat lady who can’t sing on TV, and it made people so fucking mad, and I love that.

You know what’s always seemed fucked up to me? People who move through the world as if shit doesn’t keep them up at night. I wish I could feel the freedom, even for a minute, of someone who bails on shared bills and fucks another person out of a place to live.

And of course this is something I would do. Of course I would sign up for a new thing that requires something I wasn’t prepared for.