Carly brought me to Literary Death Match last night, and I don’t think I can ever thank her enough for introducing me to something so fun, and so damn cheap! $5 in advance, $8 at the door, and it was at the Hideout, where the A/C was working, a cooler of water was free for the drinking, and hipster type boys ripe for the ogling.
However, now I’m feeling all lazy and untalented because of the amazing writers who FUCKING BROUGHT IT LAST NIGHT, I find myself feeling all jealous of one SAMANTHA IRBY. She can write, she reads like a dream, and she is funny as hell. And when I say she is funny as hell, believe me when I say that shit.
Because I’m tired of hearing about other folks who have supposedly hilarious blogs and I read them and I’m all “I don’t get it. How is this amusing?” and then I feel stupid for not getting it and even worse I feel like an asshole because maybe I’m just a hater which is funny because that’s actually not even a problem for me. I don’t mind being a hater. I embrace being a hater. I think, therefore I hate. I just get cheesed when I feel like I may be hating for no reason. I don’t like to waste my hatorade.
I may just start a blog called “bitches gotta hate” and enlist Samantha as my blogging/humor coach/mentor/svengali.
Like, I think I’m funny, but I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard at somebody else’s writing. Not even David Sedaris, and I LOVE HIM.
And I’m totally jealous of Samantha so now instead of, you know, doing the sensible thing, and just writing more and better, I’m just gonna give up the writing game and working on my hating game instead. *drops mic* *picks mic back up* At least, I’ll give it up if I can somehow befriend Samantha and get her to write a guest post for me? That’s all I need to get me more readers, more page views, more glory — get a funny lady up in here to set up shop.
The piece Samantha read last night isn’t up on her blog — at least a search for the word “midget” didn’t yield anything — but her blog, bitches gotta eat, has plenty of hilarious stories. One such story is excerpted below.
maybe it was because i was wearing gigantic sunglasses indoors that i refused to take off, or maybe she’s a real stickler for punctuality, but rather than give her the benefit of the doubt i instead snarled and hissed and bared my fangs, which is international black code for “i would never light your path to the underground railroad, you JERK.” i let her stare holes into the side of my face while i focused my attention on the bridesmaids, who looked fucking PERFECT. that’s my favorite thing on earth, when there’s no random fat broad ruining the uniformity of the bridesmaid roster. man, i’ve been that bitch before. and it fucking sucks. can’t i just sit in the last pew and eat the candy i stowed in my purse? why you gotta shove me into this tight and shiny shit? you knew i wasn’t going to lose fifty pounds, you ASSHOLE, especially because your incessant calling and emailing me all hours of the day about the florist and the caterer and the dress maker has caused me to STRESS EAT LIKE YOU WOULD NOT FUCKING BELIEVE. would it have killed you to pick a nice jersey or cotton-poly blend? my eyelashes are sweating in this shit, and my boobs are exploding out of the top. AND THE SIDES. i was in a wedding once in which every other bridesmaid was 5’2″ and approximately 32 lbs. i only went to the shit because the bride had a cousin i was interested in, but i looked like MOTHERFUCKING QUASIMODO, all giant and hunched over so i wouldn’t look like godzilla in the pictures. it was a fail, believe me. i threw my spanx in a trash can at the hotel and put on a sweater and took my shoes off before they even served the first course. blarf.
Of course, now that I’ve Googled her, I can see that I’ve come late to the “Samantha Irby is fucking awesome” internetz party. On line as in real life, I’m on Filipino time, arriving late to the shindig, but I am so glad that I am here.