Upon reading this book, my friend asked me, "Is this not just a series of White Girl Problems?" 
 I flippantly replied, "Yes, but I am a white girl with problems." 
 Lena Dunham isn't known for her racial inclusivity and obviously in a day and age where diversity is the silver bullet, I must admit that's not okay. Her feminism is aimed at such a small section of women - it speaks little about differing sexualities, classes or races. If you're an upper-middle class, soya milk drinking New Yorker who is the offspring of parents with an arty background who've nurtured your inner creativity then you will sympathise with Dunham's experiences and all of that angsty blogging off your MacBook Pro whilst listening to The Decemberists. As none of this applied to me, I realised I wasn't reading the book for her feminism even though her version of it permeates through all of her writing. 
 I was reading for her candid, over-sharing nature. Lena Dunham does not give two hoots about what you think of her, and like a drunken aunty at a wedding she has absolutely no filter. Everything from awkward sexual encounters, the now infamous sister vagina story and her eccentric parents are covered in here. This girl is introspective almost to a fault. Every facet of her life is picked apart, glued back together, and then dissembled again. It's the epidemic of a generation who document everything they do via the internet. She knows how to make the reader laugh, cry (her experience of sexual abuse, like all cases, is harrowing) and everything in between. She also has a tendency to embellish her writing, which is great from a humorous perspective; it's not so great if you're looking for narrator reliability. 
 If you're looking for a laugh and a slight bit of escapism (because let's be honest, nobody has experienced some of the things that have happened in this book and that's okay) then I highly recommend. However, I can't necessarily say you'll agree with her brand of millenial feminism.