I think the reason I hated this is the same reason why I kind of hate Girls, too: because there's absolutely nothing to like about the person who's telling the story. I don't know if I was more annoyed about Dunham lamenting her charmed childhood or sticking an "honorary queer woman" button on her shirt (god, that irritates the fuck out of me) or crushing a massive anecdote about camp that made no sense in the last twenty-five or so pages. All I know is that I was desperate for this book to end. I was desperate for it to end as I was reading the first chapter. 
 Alas, it's a memoir. I'm loath to judge memoirs, because they are what they are. You don't take a bite of a banana cream pie if you know you don't like sweets, and thus I land myself in the same jam as when I battled through Eat, Pray, Love. 
 All I can say, vaguely and yet with a great deal of certainty, is that this book was terrible to me. God, it was terrible. 
 Ugh. Just terrible.