Quietly Hostile

by Samantha Irby

But then you’re left with the dilemma of what to do with a plastic wand with poop on it, which I would try to clean with hand sanitizer, but I understand that that is absolutely unhinged behavior and a consequence of my prison brain.

I don’t want to make brunch plans when you just listened to me evacuating my bowels. I want to flush the toilet so many times you wonder if I’m waterboarding someone in your bathroom then walk past where you’re cringing on the couch directly into the sea, never to be heard from ever again.

Bodies are an off-limit subject for me in general because if I have to talk to you about your body, then you’re gonna very courteously ask me about my body, and then I have to watch you struggle to be polite as I launch into a laundry list of my physiological issues while you try not to say “Have you considered dying?” to my face.

I do care what people think sometimes, but I’m also honest enough with myself to admit that there isn’t much I’m willing to do about it.

The most surprising thing I have learned about myself in my current life as the Reanimated Corpse of Al Bundy is how quickly I find the phrase “when I was a kid” trying to claw its way from between my anxiously clenched teeth.

a kid walked by and said, “Wow, you’re into horror? Cool,” as they passed through on their way to open six different cans of LaCroix and take one sip from each before leaving each of them precariously placed next to different expensive things that shouldn’t get water spilled on them.

New Kids on the Block

And I’m sorry but “bitter bug and dirt water” is never gonna be palatable to me, so I have to add something to blunt the terrible taste of my caffeine-delivery system.

Why can’t I be a grown-up and order a cocktail that tastes like an alcoholic juice box?

why wouldn’t you want someone to work for you who you felt was overqualified for the position but seemed to genuinely want, no need, that job anyway?

I’m gonna take a handful of chips even though there’s no good way to eat them at a party; if I take as many as I want, then it’s just my greedy ass rudely walking around making small talk with a Miss Vickie’s salt-and-vinegar bag strapped to my muzzle like I’m a horse, but if I take a socially acceptable amount, I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room balancing two and a half thin-sliced potato crisps on an itty-bitty cocktail napkin.

I know how to create a chill and sexy vibe, if that’s the kind of vibe you’re into, but I am also familiar with other vibes, and I pay for Spotify Premium. I don’t remember what payment method or email address it’s attached to, so I will never be free of it.

I’m the greatest party guest there is, especially since I won’t come.