Wow, No Thank You.
A #1 New York Times Bestseller. Do what you can to get your hands on this new collection from bestselling author of We Are Never Meeting in Real Life and one of the funniest people in print: Samantha Irby
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THE NUMBER ONE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
‘Irby might be our great bard of quarantine.’ New York Times
‘SO funny. Samantha Irby makes staying in feel like like a luxury, and reminds you that going out is actually quite annoying. I laughed out loud so much reading this — I honestly couldn’t be more in awe of her.’ Sara Pascoe
Staring down the barrel of her fortieth year, Samantha Irby is confronting the ways her life has changed since the days she could work a full 11 hour shift on 4 hours of sleep, change her shoes and put mascara on in the back of a moving cab and go from drinks to dinner to the club without a second thought. Recently, things are more ‘Girls Gone Mild.’ In Wow, No Thank You Irby discusses the actual nightmare of living in a rural idyll, weighs in on body negativity (loving yourself is a full-time job with shitty benefits) and poses the essential question: Sure sex is fun but have you ever googled a popular meme?
‘Samantha Irby is the king of sparkling misanthropy and tender, loving dread.’ Jia Tolentino
‘A laugh. A fart. A snort. Or some combination thereof. Be prepared to totally lose control of the noises that come out of your body while reading the latest essay collection from humor writer Samantha Irby.’ Bustle
‘The only writer who can make me laugh with abandon in public… Her signature irreverence is intact, of course, but it can’t mask the heart she leaves bleeding on the page.’ Elle
‘Samantha Irby is hilarious… Nothing is off limits and I love it.’ Candice Carty-Williams
Read Irby because she understands the mutinies of the body. She understands suffering and uncertainty, and is wildly, seditiously funny on both. Read Irby because she knows what it means to live with a fair amount of panic and largely indoors... She might be our great bard of quarantine — with an unimpeachable daytime pajama look. What amateurs we are by comparison, stockpiling toilet paper and bleating about our sourdough starters.
Samantha Irby is stay-up-all-night, miss-your-subway-stop, spit-out-your-beverage funny; she’s the king of sparkling misanthropy and tender, loving dread. I await her books like I await the sweet release of sleep each evening, and I binged Wow, No Thank You in one compulsive stretch. As always, Irby’s writing is as irresistible as a snack tray, as intimately pleasurable as an Irish goodbye.
Irby's essays are by turns eye-wateringly hilarious and down-to-earth and authentic, delivering emotional punches that tell us about what it is to be human. An utterly talented and wickedly funny writer who deserves every success.
To call Irby one of our culture's most hilariously scathing critics is to partially cover over the fact that a frequent target of her ire is indeed herself. The self-deprecating essayist has singular ability to examine the more cringeworthy aspects of her own life to suggest that modern womanhood has more grit than glamour. Now middle-aged and married, Irby waxes hysterical about everything from the pain of being in public without a smartphone to "lesbian bed death."
Required reading on the millennial condition.
[Irby] can make the most microscopic of indignities feel like atrocities and turn the smallest of details about her favorite show or song into resonant revelations. ... To laugh at Irby’s retelling of her move to Michigan or a middle-aged girls’ night out is to laugh off our own fears of change; to worry about her place in a blue town in a red state is to consider a larger clash of cultures.
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