This guy crammed every “insightful” or “profound” observation or opinion he had when he was 19 into this semi-autobiographical “anti-hero,” a loathsome pretentious self-obsessed hipster.
Every page revealed new horrors of gobsmacking incompetence.
A character actually says “I remember [that thing] really heebying my jeebies” and doesn’t immediately get strangled.
There are three separate metaphors about “a bowl of milk”:
- "Something delicate released in my chest, like a gold ring dropping in a bowl of milk."
- "A few stars floated around like the last Cheerios in a bowl of black milk."
- "Dark clouds against a bright sky, like blackberries in a bowl of milk."
This book is bad.
