Joy Sanders has a permanently displeased face and the personality to match.
A senior account director in Manhattan, thirty-two, with a closet full of Theory blouses and a contempt for almost everyone she meets - including, increasingly, herself. Over the course of one bad week she manages to torch her relationship, her ten-year friendship, and her career, all without quite admitting that the common factor is her.
Six days later, drunk and alone, she books a one-way ticket to Koh Samui.
She isn't going to find herself. She isn't going to heal. She brings her temper, her cynicism, and her resting bitch face to a tropical island that has no obligation to fix her - and largely declines to try.
Joyless in Samui is a literary anti-novel. Sharp, profane, allergic to spiritual breakthroughs. There is no awakening, no romance, no revelation that gathers up the pieces and tells you what they mean.