Reading this book is like being transported to 2007 and having someone hand you a chain wallet and Dickies before plopping you into a room with golf course green carpeting and a single bean bag chair (leather, of course). Arcade Fire is playing in the background. Or maybe it's Freezepop? Grab a 4 Loko and some Asteroid Cheetos. You are a fucking hipster and this is your life.
Miranda July has been on my to-read list for ages because I loved her aesthetic and how reminiscent it is of aughts counterculture, and also because I love weird literature that lives on the fringe of academic and hip. But this felt too much like reading a Livejournal entry for my liking. If you're into that, maybe this will be for you.
2 out of 5 stars