Jenny Slate is funny as hell, but this book isn’t really funny as much as it’s vulnerable. It’s made up of short-ish chapters that are musings more than they are essays. I like the couple of sections that are about men talking at her about whatever, and she writes what’s going on in her mind while they talk–like how to get away from them or what it is that she’s really missing in life.
There’s also an overarching sadness in the book that’s very relatable. She’s recently divorced and feels like she’ll be alone forever because she seeks such deep intimacy that she just never seems to find. All the stuff about wanting someone to kiss while she’s in the kitchen or that she wonders why she doesn’t have someone to love her foreal on Valentine’s Day or that she doesn’t have someone to sleep with or go to weddings with. Sad and real.