My rating: 1 of 5 stars
Terrible self deprecating humorist tries to find substance in vapidity, uses first pronoun judiciously while recounting shameless vapidity, slanders Alexander De Tocqueville, Freud and numerous critical thinkers in a desperate attempt to validate his lack of credibility, appeals to the reader's sentimentality with his father's imminence while maintaining, mandating, repeatedly glorifying the role of all women as an object...I could go on. Just pure tripe.
A worthwhile memoir is one that doesn't need to rely on the concept of "I Me Me Mine".
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