<b>One of <i>Vanity Fair&apos;</i>s Great Quarantine Reads: Step into Jenny Slate&apos;s wild imagination in this "magical" (Mindy Kaling), "delicious" (Amy Sedaris), and "poignant" (John Mulaney) <i>New York Times</i> bestseller about love, heartbreak, and being alive -- "this book is something new and wonderful" (George Saunders).</b><br /><br /> You may "know" Jenny Slate from her Netflix special, <i>Stage Fright</i>, as the creator of Marcel the Shell, or as the star of "Obvious Child." But you don&apos;t really <i>know</i> Jenny Slate until you get bonked on the head by her absolutely singular writing style. To see the world through Jenny&apos;s eyes is to see it as though for the first time, shimmering with strangeness and possibility.<br /><br /> As she will remind you, we live on an ancient ball that rotates around a bigger ball made up of lights and gasses that are science gasses, not farts (don&apos;t be immature). Heartbreak, confusion, and misogyny stalk this blue-green sphere, yes, but it is also a place of wild delight and unconstrained vitality, a place where we can start living as soon as we are born, and we can be born at any time. In her dazzling, impossible-to-categorize debut, Jenny channels the pain and beauty of life in writing so fresh, so new, and so burstingly alive, we catch her vision like a fever and bring it back out into the bright day with us, where everything has changed.