Meaty Samantha Irby Quotes

But no, I came by these feelings honestly. And I don’t accept bitter. Wounded, yes. Traumatized, sure. Grieving, okay. Anything other than bitter. I put too much work in to be callously tossed aside as bitter. Bitter is for someone who hasn’t earned it.

You know what makes me happy? Unexpected phone calls in the middle of the day. Remembering what I liked at that one restaurant we went to that one time. Half-dead grocery store flowers just because they were on sale. A good morning text that says, “have a good day and try not to burn anything to the ground in a furious rage.

I want to ride a camel to the club and valet that shit.

I'm not bitter, I survived a liar. I'm not bitter, I weathered a cheater. I'm not bitter, I sustained a massive injury to the giant, bloody muscle in the center of my chest that is responsible for pumping blood through my entire body.

You know, what I really need is someone who remembers to rotate this meaty pre-corpse toward the sun every couple of days and tries to get me to stop spending my money like a goddamn NBA lottery pick.

Favorite food? Brunch and tacos.

Because I feel like if I’m still bothering to wash my hair and take a multivitamin once in a while and read an old issue of Newsweek at the doctor’s office then I haven’t let go, I’ve just loosened my grip.

I really wish I was the type of person who owned a Prius and didn’t work fifty hours a week and could spend time in the grocery store reading labels to make sure that there isn’t a drop of gelatin or honey in every single thing I put in my cart at Whole Foods.

Can’t we just make holding hands while partially clothed a real motherfucking thing? Is mutual masturbation really so terrible? Because actual human sex is sometimes the goddamned worst.

Itell anyone who is interested that my ideal long-term romantic relationship is one in which my manfriend and I have separate apartments in the same building. Or in buildings across the street from one another.

I just don’t want to do that anymore. Can’t we just lie fully clothed in bed together while holding hands and talking about how good pork belly tacos taste? I don’t want to do the “I’m sorry this is my disgusting body” apology jig ever again, nor will there ever be a time that the “just let me keep my shirt on” waltz isn’t utterly humiliating. Why must they always argue? Just let me keep this stupid long-sleeved shirt on already.

And here is what you can say about a woman’s body when she has her clothes off: Absolutely Nothing. Listen homie, that thing that you secretly hate about my body? Don’t worry, I hate it, too. With every fiber in my weird, fibrous breasts. And I’m the one who has to deal with its daily mockery! Every mark, every scar, every scratch, every flaw: I’ve seen it, documented it, cried over it, and tried to hide it. Would it kill you to pretend it isn’t there? Or that—brace yourself—it might make me mysterious and sexy?

The first time I heard, “Sam’s just jealous because I have a man and she doesn’t” I almost shit myself laughing. You have a boyfriend, I have a cat. We’re even. Helen Keller does everything a dude does: eats my fucking food, does what the fuck she wants, leaves her shit everywhere, ruins all of my nice things, and never cleans up after her fucking self. She doesn’t tell me what she’s thinking, she rarely takes my feelings into account, she doesn’t pay attention when I talk, and she only wants affection on her terms. SOUNDS LIKE I HAVE A GODDAMNED BOYFRIEND. Or, at least, it sounds like I have your goddamned boyfriend.

Anyway, we're doing it missionary style, in honor of the pilgrims...

What can you possibly do with the rest of your life when this is how it begins? Who am I supposed to be? When do I get the manual on how to be an adult, or what everything means? How am I supposed to build a life on the wreckage that is this foundation? How can I be sure those plates won’t shift?! Children should never die before their parents.

I’m not a dumb asshole anymore. I don’t make bad decisions or fuck bad people anymore, not like I did when I was a kid, yet I’m always left blindsided and dumbfounded at the end of a thing, the end of a thing that I thought was one thing and was surprised to find out was totally another.

So that’s that. I’m not horrible and intolerable and physically unappealing. Men don’t hate me and think I’m stupid. I’M JUST ALLERGIC TO ASSHOLES. Man, I’m so relieved. And so is my asshole.

I didn’t yet understand the difference between God and the president, yet I knew which pills went with breakfast and which ones were taken after dinner.

It was excruciating, watching what had once been a vibrant and beautiful flower wilt and dehydrate in slow motion.

I was one of those precocious, know-it-all children: volunteering facts and figures and unsolicited answers, totally gross in my adorable smart-aleckiness. I couldn’t wait to show off how much random shit I knew;

Every birthday party, while all the other kids tore ass around Showbiz shrieking at a deafening volume and raucously playing arcade games, I would volunteer to stand guard over the gift table, talking about mom stuff with the moms.

The Tapeworm Diet. So this is a real thing. It’s illegal in America, because we hate infectious parasites, but other people in countries that understand how hard it is for a bitch to keep her grubby little mitts off cheese dogs obviously have governments that care about them. These fucking fascists.

By this point I’d been working at the animal hospital for three years. Three years on the job is when you really start to find your fucking groove. You know everyone’s crazymaking habits, you can rest relatively sure that your boss isn’t going to fire you over something dumb, bitches stop “accidentally” microwaving your frozen meals in the breakroom at lunch, and you’re finally comfortable enough to take a shit in the middle of the workday. So work was good. Real good. Like, push back from the table and unbutton your pants after a meal good. Plus we had just gotten health insurance.

And I know a lot of things suck, and so many people are going through so many terrible things, but to me, in this goddamned moment, nothing is worse than this gross-ass shit disease. Yes, there are worse things, but since those things are not currently happening to me, this bullshit is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of ever. It took seven months and a battery of tests for the doctors and nurses and radiologists to come up with a diagnosis, and as soon as they delivered it I was like, “Wouldn’t euthanizing my ass be so much easier?

I finally have something to say to these jerks who keep asking why I ain’t got no mans. “Well yes, nosy bitch I went to high school with, I most certainly would like to be married with six and a half children and a golden retriever right now. But, you see, it turns out that I have a physiological reaction to men and their insipid nonsense. Relationships give me baby guts. It’s downright dreadful. I’m lucky to even be alive.

little

bit of an asshole, albeit in an endearing way. She is not a mean person, just somebody who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. She vacillates between being a misanthropic loner and being totally charming and personable. Nell is a badass, but secretly sort of miserable and displaced. While hosting her show, Nell is warm, reassuring, attentive, and wise. Hers is exactly the voice you hope to hear when you call the suicide hotline. Off-mic, Nell is harsh, sharp-tongued, and surly. Wherever she goes, Nell is the most quick-witted person in the room, so she spends most of her time gritting her teeth and rolling her eyes at the pageant of dumb-assery that surrounds her.

I have neither the time nor patience to fix 30+ years of all my gross shit. My snoring, my shitting all the time, my only flushing the toilet after I’ve peed in it a bunch of times, my irregular mopping, my gross litterbox, my dinner in bed, my counter covered with pill bottles, my cat food everywhere, my cat hair everywhere, my piles of filthy laundry, my dozens of dirty-ass Birkenstocks scattered all over. Sometimes Helen gets maxi-pads out of the bathroom trash and chews them. Sometimes I let food go bad and take way too long to throw it out. Sometimes I drink out of the same water glass for, like, three days without washing it. BARF.

Being jealous because some bitch has a dude is like being jealous of a goddamned stomachache: I’ve had one before; and while what I did to get it might have been fun, once I’m actually stuck with it, it kind of TOTALLY FUCKING SUCKS.

I was living the dream.

Dude, everyone is so fucking relaxed here.

After the indignity of having to wrestle a motherfucking Dave Matthews Band CD from the clutches of a GROWN ASS MAN, I decided to pack my shit and fend for myself like a feral cat out on the streets.

And that is humbling in the most excruciatingly uncomfortable way, sleeping surrounded by the remnants of someone else’s happy childhood.

This is the kind of dumb shit I notice, that a bitch the circumference of my forearm took two bites out of a low-fat cheese enchilada and carelessly wasted the remaining 200 calories and three unused Weight Watchers points down the garbage disposal in the community kitchen.

And before I met that dude I didn’t know shit about sparkling water or jacuzzi bathtubs or Pratesi sheets. I didn’t know what Ezekiel bread was. Or that there are more than four types of cheese. I got a nearly perfect score on the ACT but had no idea that people actually ate uncooked vegetables that weren’tsalad.

They really did believe that I had shit six strapping young men from my oozing womb hole and was now taking a design class to “satisfy my intellectual curiosity.

Every time I came to class someone would ask about “my boys,” and I would make up a story about how the nanny burned down the coach house. Or that we’d started our own pee wee football team.

my vagina was a fucking celebrity.

I signed it with six little wobbly Ks.

I’m not mad that you lied. I’m not even mad that you kind of made me look like a pedophile. I understand why you did it, and I’d understand if you needed to do it again. Just remember next time that I am a MOTHERFUCKING JEW.

Honestly? I don’t know, homie. Marriage seems so hard. I mean, even the ones on television look like they just take so much goddamned work. I’m lazy. Plus, getting out of one seems ridiculously expensive. And then when you get divorced, after all of the crying and draining of mutual bank accounts before your partner gets a chance to, you have to cut the children in half, which is probably very bloody and messy. You know, what I really need is someone who remembers to rotate this meaty pre-corpse toward the sun every couple of days and tries to get me to stop spending my money like a goddamn NBA lottery pick.

But my love life makes me feel like a feral cat backed into a corner: spine arched, hackles raised, teeth bared, snarling and hissing at any potential liars or cheaters or opportunists who dare to get too close. I hate this idea that women are just bitter of our own accord, that we haven't been driven there by years of taking it on the chin while trying to maintain a cheerful disposition.