Quietly Hostile

by Samantha Irby

I want to push back against this idea that it’s not real love if you’re not passionately chattering at each other all the time, that it’s just as valid (and romantic!) to know instinctively when to shut the fuck up.

I was talking to a man (first mistake), reminiscing about old shit (that’s a trap, never do it),

QUIETLY HOSTILE is how I would describe my public personality; I am mild-mannered and super polite, but just beneath the surface of my skin, my blood is electrified and I am one inconsiderate driver away from a full Falling Down–style emotional collapse.

(Piss onto others as you would have them piss onto you.)

What misery it is, being a person and existing in a human body over whose chemicals and hormones and cells you have very little control.

How do the properly hydrated among you get through the goddamned day?