I’m pretty sure sure I’m not the target audience for Lena Dunham’s debut book. Yet I’m really happy that I read this, if only because I was capable of drawing my own conclusions about passages which were taken extremely out of context and had become distorted by both social justice and conservative medias alike to accuse the author of sexual assault.

Funny enough, these nuanced passages concerning childhood weren’t the ones I found most “offensive.” On the contrary, they were some of the most well-written, earnest depictions of girlhood I’d seen in a highly-publicized memoir in a long time. With the exception of the last two essays (which deviated from the first-person structure of everything preceding them without warning—I enjoyed the listicles, however, because they were evenly spaced throughout the memoir).


Points of note: Killer illustration work by Joan Avillez