This is the third “I’m a young lady living in New York City and these are the sad things that happened to me or that I directly caused by making horrible decisions” memoir I’ve read this year. I have no idea why I’m reading so many of them.
I liked it (I liked the other two as well, if we’re keeping score). She has an engaging style. She also seems to write about cigarettes quite a bit. If books could smell, this one would smell like a dirty alley in Williamsburg and an overturned ashtray. And who doesn’t want to read about crushed cigarettes and broken hearts when the weather is so beautiful out?
