I’m late to the cathartic writing of Samantha Irby. While I’d rather have her in my life now than never at all, I desperately wish I’d found her years ago. Unflinchingly (more like daring-you-to-flinch) honest, equal parts heart and gut-wrenching, and – somehow even in moments of profound sadness – breathtakingly funny. It was all I could not not to dive right into her first book, Meaty, because, despite appearances, I swear I really am trying to make some progress in my stacks. In the meantime, however, I’m binging on Irby’s blog, bitches gotta eat,and eyeing Meaty as it sits patiently in my Amazon shopping cart. Sigh.

EDIT: I am such a fibber. Since submitting this review, I have, in fact, gone ahead and ordered a copy of Meaty. I regret nothing. Well, nothing to do with marvelous Samantha Irby, anyway.