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334 pages, Paperback
First published October 9, 2012
A Postmodern Belch. I am writing it as a self-indulgent exercise in distracting postmodern bullshit.
I do not know what true love is just pain through my writing I tell many true life events like one, time my fellow gang member friend was almost killed for protecting a pregnant women who was being hit in her stomach by other gang members at a party.
Also included in the text were several self-penned reviews of the novel:
The novel seems to set out to expose the hollow experimentalism of post-modernist fiction. However, through an overflow of self-conscious asides, direct references to the author and her intentions, characters whose sole motive is to spar with the author about what elements of her own persona she has instilled into them, this is little more than a highly conceptualized, vainly realized exercise in gross self-indulgence.