I used to write more like Little Weirds by Jenny Slate. Maybe I still do. This work is quirky and literary, emotional and smart, and quirky. Did I say quirky? This is a woman who has been given (given herself?) permission to fly with the little weird thoughts and experiences that make up life. The books vacillates between deep heartache and desperate loneliness and also accounts of companionship, unexpected life-affirming experiences, and good people (mostly women), who have stepped in and made her life better, even if only for a short time. There are little weird encounters or weekends or trips that are healing. You can tell that Slate is a reader and surrounded by art and has a literary eye. Her bio says her dad is a poet, and you can tell. This isn’t the type of book that usually gets published. I’m glad it did.