Is 'I Keep My Exoskeletons To Myself' Worth Reading?

Just finished binge-reading 'I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself' last week, and wow—what a ride! The prose is so sharp it feels like it could cut glass, and the themes linger long after you’ve turned the last page. As for finding it free online, I’d tread carefully. While some sites offer unofficial copies, they’re often shady or low quality. The author poured their soul into this, and supporting their work legally (through libraries or legit sales) feels right. Plus, libraries sometimes have digital loans—check Libby or OverDrive! That said, I totally get the budget struggle. If you’re desperate, maybe look for publisher giveaways or Kindle Unlimited trials? But honestly, this book’s worth the splurge. The way it blends body horror with queer resilience is unlike anything I’ve read. It’s the kind of story that makes you want to hug the book after finishing—and maybe the author too, for writing it.

I stumbled upon 'I’ll Show Myself Out' during a late-night browsing session, and something about the title just grabbed me. Maybe it was the self-deprecating humor implied, or the promise of raw, unfiltered reflections on life. The book delivers exactly that—a mix of poignant essays and laugh-out-loud moments that feel like chatting with a brutally honest friend. Jessi Klein’s writing is sharp, relatable, and unafraid to dive into the messy parts of adulthood, motherhood, and just existing as a woman in this world. It’s not a self-help book, but it somehow leaves you feeling less alone in your own chaos. What really stood out to me was how Klein balances humor with vulnerability. One minute, she’s joking about the absurdity of parenting, and the next, she’s hitting you with a line so profound it lingers for days. If you’ve ever felt like you’re barely holding it together while everyone else seems to have their act figured out, this book is like a warm hug (or a much-needed reality check). I dog-eared so many pages because her observations resonated so deeply. It’s one of those rare reads that makes you laugh, cry, and nod aggressively while muttering, 'YES, EXACTLY.'

Reading 'I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself' felt like peeling back layers of emotional armor. The protagonist clings to those exoskeletons not just as physical remnants but as a metaphor for self-preservation—each shell represents a past version of themselves, a defense mechanism against a world that demands vulnerability. It’s hauntingly beautiful how the story frames identity as something both fragile and unyielding, like a cicada’s discarded husk still holding the shape of what once was. The exoskeletons also serve as a quiet rebellion. In a society that might see shedding them as 'growth,' the protagonist’s refusal becomes an act of resistance. It reminds me of how we all collect invisible scars and calluses, pretending they’re gone while secretly needing them to feel whole. The book’s title alone gives me chills—it’s not hoarding; it’s honoring the parts of us that others call 'outgrown.'

I picked up 'The Soul of an Octopus' on a whim after spotting its vibrant cover at the bookstore, and oh boy, was it a journey. Sy Montgomery’s writing isn’t just about octopuses—it’s about connection, curiosity, and the sheer wonder of the natural world. Her encounters with these intelligent creatures are narrated with such warmth that you feel like you’re right there beside her, watching an octopus solve puzzles or curiously wrap its tentacles around her hand. The book also dives into the science of cephalopod cognition, but it never feels dry. Instead, it’s woven into personal anecdotes that make you question how we define intelligence. By the end, I found myself staring at aquarium tanks with newfound respect. It’s one of those reads that lingers, making you see the ocean—and maybe even humanity—differently.

The ending of 'I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself' is this hauntingly beautiful blend of melancholy and hope. Kris, the protagonist, finally confronts the weight of their grief and guilt after losing their partner, Bee. The exoskeletons—both literal and metaphorical—represent the layers of protection they’ve built around themselves. In the final scenes, Kris begins to shed some of that armor, not fully, but enough to let light in. There’s this moment where they interact with their child, Small, and you can see the tentative steps toward healing. It’s not a 'happily ever after,' but it’s real. The book leaves you with this quiet ache, like pressing on a bruise, but also a sense that maybe, just maybe, Kris can learn to live with the scars. What really stuck with me was how the author, Marisa Crane, doesn’t rush the emotional payoff. The ending mirrors life—messy, unresolved, but tender. The way Kris’s relationship with Small evolves feels earned, not forced. And that last image of the exoskeletons, still there but no longer suffocating? Chills. It’s one of those endings that lingers, making you flip back to reread passages just to sit with the feeling a little longer.

I just finished 'What We Kept to Ourselves' last week, and wow—it left me with this lingering ache that I can't shake. The way it weaves family secrets with cultural displacement hit me harder than I expected. It's not just about the mystery; it's about how silence can shape generations. The pacing starts slow, almost like a simmer, but then it boils over in the most unexpected ways. I found myself rereading paragraphs just to savor the prose. What really got me was how the author uses everyday objects—a misplaced key, a half-written letter—to carry so much emotional weight. It reminded me of 'Pachinko' in how it treats history as something intimate rather than epic. If you're into character-driven stories where the setting feels like a quiet character itself, this one's a gem. I stayed up way too late finishing it, and my under-eye bags were totally worth it.

If you loved the introspective, queer-infused dystopia of 'I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself,' you might fall hard for 'The Actual Star' by Monica Byrne. Both books weave mythology into their narratives, creating worlds that feel both ancient and eerily futuristic. Byrne’s sprawling tale jumps across timelines, much like how Marisa Crane’s work plays with time and memory. There’s a shared focus on marginalized bodies navigating oppressive systems—whether it’s surveillance in 'Exoskeletons' or colonialism in 'The Actual Star.' Both authors have this lyrical, almost poetic prose style that makes every sentence feel deliberate. Another gem is 'The Membranes' by Chi Ta-wei, a Taiwanese sci-fi novella exploring identity and isolation under a hyper-capitalist society. The protagonist’s journey mirrors the emotional weight of Crane’s main character, with both stories questioning what it means to be 'whole' in a world that fragments you. For something more contemporary, 'Little Blue Encyclopedia (for Vivian)' by Hazel Jane Plante is a tender, nonlinear ode to grief and trans identity, with a similar mix of humor and heartbreak.

I picked up 'More Than a Body' after hearing so much buzz about it in online book clubs, and wow, it really lives up to the hype. The way the authors tackle body image with such raw honesty and empathy struck a chord with me. It's not just another self-help book—it feels like a heartfelt conversation with a wise friend who gets it. The blend of personal stories and research makes it relatable yet grounded. What I loved most was how it challenges societal beauty standards without feeling preachy. It’s empowering, especially for anyone who’s ever struggled with self-worth tied to appearance. I found myself nodding along, highlighting passages, and even tearing up at some points. If you’re looking for something that’ll make you rethink your relationship with your body, this is it. Finished it feeling lighter and more compassionate toward myself.

I picked up 'Anything But Human' on a whim after seeing some intriguing fan art online, and wow, it really stuck with me. The story blends existential sci-fi with this raw, almost poetic exploration of what it means to be alive—whether you’re organic or not. The protagonist’s journey from confusion to self-acceptance is messy in the best way, and the world-building feels fresh despite the crowded genre. Some panels are downright haunting, like when they stare at their own synthetic hands, questioning if their emotions are just code. It’s not a light read, but if you’re into stories that linger? Absolutely worth it. That said, the pacing stumbles a bit in the middle—there’s a whole arc about corporate espionage that could’ve been tighter. But the payoff in the final volume? Chills. The way the artist uses color to differentiate 'human' memories from artificial ones is genius. I’d recommend it to fans of 'Ghost in the Shell' or 'Blame!' who don’t mind a slower burn.

The protagonist of 'I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself' is Kris, a grieving parent navigating a dystopian world where shadows are literal manifestations of punishment. Their journey is deeply personal, tangled with loss and resilience. The story also introduces their child, Bea, whose innocence contrasts starkly with the oppressive society they live in. Supporting characters like the enigmatic Gumball and the bureaucratic figures add layers to Kris's struggle. The relationships are messy, raw, and beautifully human—each interaction feels like a puzzle piece in Kris's emotional landscape. What sticks with me is how the book turns grief into something almost tangible, like a shadow you can't shake off.