A wanton and vapid and endlessly self-indulgent pseudo-memoir...but it's delightful and charming, too. The characters are all these preposterous artsy dilettantes -- picture lots of people smoking and talking about the nature of art and speaking of their "lovers" and a lot of other such nonsense -- but for some reason I adored them all anyway, and I wanted to keep reading. It's a strange alchemy in this book. So much to dislike, so haphazard and obnoxious, and yet it still weirdly comes together. Heti certainly doesn't spare herself, which is admirable. Her voice is beguiling, too, almost childlike. This book is sort of the literary equivalent to that drunk guy on youtube who sings Bohemian Rhapsody in its entirety from the back of a police cruiser. Definitely not for everyone, but I rather liked it.