“We Are Never Meeting in Real Life” is the new “The Alchemist”
The Bible didn’t save my life. Neither did “The Alchemist”. Whenever I’m down in the pitty asshole of life, people ALWAYS suggest either the Bible or “The Alchemist”. I’ve read through both of those MANY TIMES. Sometimes I just want to read something I resonate with — not that I don’t resonate with those two, but I’m not a young Spanish boy in search of treasure and the Testaments sometimes bore me to tears, man. I wanted to read someone who GETS IT. I wanted to know that anxiety diarrhea is a common symptom rather than something that just plagues me. I wanted to feel less alone in the dumpster fire that is life; that I wasn’t kindling this trash heap by myself and that there were some embers down there with me.
It took me a long time to finish college. I mean, a long time. Some people finish in the same amount of time, but they’re doctors. Alas, no lives will be saved on my account. I only have a useless piece of paper to my name and was it worth every penny? ABSOLUTELY NOT. I juggled an international job (#humblebrag), clinical depression, and a plethora of personal problems during that time. While pushing through my last semester of college, I was living with a crackhead in Sydney, Australia. Not by choice, but I was actually SENT to live there by my job. Trying to complete assignments with a dude banging on my bedroom door asking for money wasn’t exactly easy and sometimes I got so overwhelmed that I would say, “fuck this” and head out to the beach. There I would lay on the rocks and read like the incredibly lazy and extremely lucky human that I am. Oh, how I miss it — sans crackhead.
“We Are Never Meeting in Real Life” by Samantha Irby admittedly caught my eye. A loud yellow binding with a kitten hissing on the front? Yes, please. It was *cool* looking. I know, I know. You’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but look, I read “Of Mice and Men” when I was in elementary school. If this book turned out to be garbage, it couldn’t possibly be as boring as that supposed “American classic”.
Samantha Irby is a gift. While I was sun burning my buns and avoiding the crackhead in my apartment, I was absolutely enveloped by Irby’s writing. I would laugh. I would cry. I would wheeze. I felt all the feels and cried all the tears. “We Are Never Meeting in Real Life” is a collection of essays about Irby’s life. Kind of like a memoir, but kind of not.
Growing up without an older sister, I was pretty much void of older-sisterly advice unless it came from my mom, who is THE SHIT, but definitely not my older sister. I don’t want to talk to her about penises or blowjobs or whatever! I also had three older brothers and asking them for advice always resulted in a shrug or some bullshit response that I fully rejected. Why does dating suck? What’s it going to be like when I put down my dog? Was anyone else molested? I NEEDED answers — or maybe just someone else’s words to guide me through these tumultuous times.
Whilst going through this last semester of school, I was also going through one of my worst bouts of depression. As previously mentioned, I have been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder or clinical depression. Not always a cakewalk, I constantly have to parse through my negative thoughts to find hope. Sometimes I feel pretty fucking lonely. Oh, and I was also going through a break up with the man I thought I was going to marry and I was spiraling and I really wanted to kill myself and I really wanted to evaporate and I really wanted anything other than my reality. Enter SAMANTHA MUTHAFUCKIN’ IRBY, man. Again and again, she came through.
These essays span all topics: heartbreak and first loves and shitting yourself on the side of the road during a snowstorm.
“It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.”
― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
“I am a simple person. Kind of. I mean, I don’t really have any dreams beyond comfortable pants and unlimited sparkling water.”
― Samantha Irby, We are Never Meeting in Real Life.
I mean, come on. That’s real mothafuqin’ LIFE. When you’re down in the dumps (or wanting to read some very good, hilarious essays), turn away from The Alchemist — though I know it has its place — and go read my girl’s book: “We Are Never Meeting in Real Life”.
