Samantha Irby is seriously funny in a way that, ironically, makes me frown and try to analyze exactly how she's pulling it off in such a sustained way. Part of it is that she is hashtag relatable as heck:
What I really wanted to do was pull a blanket over my head and listen to Pearl Jam’s No Code on repeat while eating snacks and pretending to be searching for myself all day (fuck, that’s all I want to fucking do now), but I couldn’t find anyone willing to pay for that shit.
Fifty out of the 168 hours of my week are spent mad because work is interfering with all the Internet articles I’m trying to read
Part of it is sheer discipline: tight writing with a point so sharp you almost won't feel it slide in.
You could tell how much the bride’s parents loved her by the quality of the food.
My parents, as I can’t stop reminding people, ARE DEAD.
So yeah, dizzying technical prowess and ferocious wit, but that's not even the thing. It's the writing on the deaths of her parents - unsparing, un-self-pitying - that will stay with you long after the last page. Get into Samantha Irby now, so that when she blows up into the megastar she's destined to be, you can say you knew her when.