I went to bed reading Super Sad True Love Story, and I woke up reading Super Sad True Love Story.
I need to get ready for work, Gary Shetyngart, but instead I am still in my pajamas, curled in my bed (which is actually a couch, but that’s another story) with your book resting on my thigh. I should not feel guilty reading for pleasure, but sometimes, like with your highly entertaining and astute yet slightly smutty new novel, I do.
Do you remember when I came into your office and asked if I could write a profile on you? You looked bookish and professorial, and your beard was even more brillo-like in person. You gently said no, citing an already packed schedule and no clue as to the details of your calendar (your publicist handles that). I lingered momentarily, and gave you a fawn-searching-for-it-mother-in-the woods look. Maybe it expressed longing, maybe desperation, maybe it was one of deep sorrow on account of my permanent existential crisis. But it worked, sort of. Why don’t you contact my publicist, you offered, she knows better than I do if we can carve out some time.
[...]
