Wow, No Thank You.

by Samantha Irby

As a matter of fact, all my bad behavior is heightened, because where is this bitch I’m married to gonna go? She’s stuck with me now.

people who couldn’t be bothered to teach me how to balance a checkbook

Come on now, do you really want to sit on the edge of a hard-backed chair clutching some Costco Chardonnay while Bob and Janice regale you with stories about the Alaskan cruise they took last fall?

Instead, I married this person who makes her own kombucha and charges her crystals under the new moon. Girl, adapt!

Also, my kingdom for a person on Earth over the age of five who does not have any “life issues.” LIFE IS MY ISSUE, SIR.

You know what feels like a lot of pressure to me? Being the sole object of one person’s affections.

trying to make new friends as an adult is the hardest thing I have ever attempted to

get to travel and work in fancy cities with mass transit and Ethiopian food, then come back and pay $1.87 for a gallon of gas for the car that I can park anywhere on my sprawling 2,000 acres of land that were practically free.

“Um, excuse me, miss, would you like to sit around and vape sativa with me and eat Trader Joe’s Cubano wraps while MSNBC plays on a continuous loop in the background?”

*effusive praise you’ll eventually come to regret*;

a lot of these peoples are Neighbors, a club I have no interest in joining!

I spent my first few days hiding from the surprising number of people who knocked on our door throughout the day.

don’t believe in answering an unsolicited door knock.

kids whose costumes I had no reference for (what is a Minecraft?) to

keep a grimy, dusty NARS multipurpose stick in the bottom of my bag just in case I run into someone who knows me and might ask,

I start washing at the top, get real intense around the middle, then let the suds rinse off the rest.

The farmers’ market is full of actual farmers instead of bearded hipsters in distressed flannel bloviating at you about peak asparagus season while criminally overcharging you for Pink Lady apples.

I mean, we just put a canoe rack on our Honda. I’m starting the paperwork to make our male cat an emotional support animal. There’s no way we’re getting out of a Freedom Headlock.

I live in a “we ordered a pizza but I also made a fresh herb salad and roasted some brussels sprouts and shallots to go with it, and since I had a little extra time, I also made a loaf of bread and whipped up a fruit tart including homemade pastry cream” house.

My lady handed me a bottle of home dressing, which, for the uninitiated, is something people who grow up in loving families that put limits on the TV make. “It’s cute you think I’m going to eat this unsalted vinegar spray on this bowl of damp lawn clippings you’re trying to serve me but, no, ma’am, I will not.”

That was back in the good old days, before time ravaged my body and spirit.