I should begin by saying I don't really like autobiography, and I dislike confessional autobiography in particular. Why have I given this four stars, then? Well. This is the story of what happens post-breakup. I expected, therefore, to read about the author (HR) taking the smashed bits of herself and building them into something new and greater. After all, Hollywood has conditioned me to expect these things. Rather than "Eat Pray Love" I'd hoped for "Rant F**k Laugh." However...that isn't what I found here, or at least not in the form I'd expected. Cue outrage by midway through, when hardly anything (I thought) had "happened" yet. And then, when things began to "happen" (read: the amusing dates promised by the title/blurb) it began to dawn on me that (1) without the early context the second act would have been meaningless, and (2) I was actually reading an actual menoir of an actual experience, and that life isn't known for following genre conventions. Not even conventions of the "Rant F**k Laugh" variety. ANYWAY. There is plenty of ranting, f**king and laughing to keep the reader entertained. There are moments of uncomfortable honesty and depth; things that are true enough that you say "ho ho, jolly accurate, wot" and then find that you're unable to meet your own eye in the mirror because you're not ready to admit that you've thought/behaved in exactly the same way. Tra la la. This, and the social commentary you get alongside the personal anecdotes/reflections are the elements that will make HR's book a memorable read. I've gone for 4 rather than 5 stars because the tangential nature of the writing does require an actual fondness for authorial style rather than story. I dont mind it. You might. ANYWAY. I'd highlighted a couple of quotes that you might find useful in deciding whether to buy this book. Unfortunately, Apple, Allen & Unwin, corporate bastardry and capitalism in general prevent me from simply copying and pasting these witticisms for you to enjoy and subsequently nudge you towards a purchase. Capitalism inevitably contains the seeds of its own destruction, you see. If Marx hasn't told you that, Helen Razer will.