I don't know who Amy Poehler is. Never heard of her. I've seen this book on (every single) other blogs and thought it might have been a nice book about feminism or something. Or at least a bit funny. But it's not. Sure, Amy may (possibly) be a feminist (unsure, not really bothered either way) but this book had nothing to do with feminism. It's just an oddly written, mis-shapen diary kind of book that had no linear trajectory, it's just an inner monologue on paper. Or a screen if you read it on Kindle like I did. 
 I am just writing this because I still can't stop myself from reading the popular stuff I have no idea about, or interest in. I just wanna like what every one else likes. But then again, I also don't. I assume after I've read Bossypants and whatever else there is out there that I might finally have gotten this in to my thick skull and I can move on, having grown as a person. Metaphorically, of course. I will be 5' 2" 'til the end of days.