Liars and Saints

I hate almost everything about email, and one thing I especially hate is the autoreply. I hate the autoreply because I feel it shouldn't have to exist; I feel, when I am on vacation from my job, the thought of even *drafting* an email to me should be barred from entering any colleague's head. If I were to write an honest autoreply, it would be this: What are you doing? There is truly nothing that you and I need to discuss for the next week, via email or any other kind of communication. Whatever you wrote below? I won't be reading it when I return. Try again in twelve to fourteen days. Since this isn't possible, I have gone with the following: Thank you for your email; I will be away for the week. If there is an urgent matter, please contact XXXXXXXXX. "Thank you for your email" is bullshit; really, it means, "Good God, you're a piece of work." I considered writing, "With urgent matters, please contact...." But t...

Samantha Irby had a traumatic childhood. At one point, she alludes to multiple men dying in her childhood basement. Also, she spent time in a crack house. (She corrects herself; she feels it wasn't really a crack house, but maybe just a retreat for people who enjoyed crack? I'm not sure I have the right distinction here.) Irby's unusual gift is that she can write about this sort of thing without even a hint of self-pity; she describes tough times, and the ensuing depression, with clear eyes and even an occasional shrug. She has something in common with Augusten Burroughs. Irby's new book lists the kinds of questions you might have if you're an anxious person feeling not quite at home on this planet. (I fit in that group, so I was charmed.) The questions: If you move into a house, do you have to wash the *outside* of the house? Do people wash their walls? If you find yourself working at a fancy company, can you be honest and write "Hostess low-fat cherr...