I didn't like this book right from the start. By page 8, I was already skipping paragraphs of nonsensical prose.Tonight however I'm already getting into trouble. Tonight I've already flirted (snicker-snack!) with the woman in the Machiavellian miniskirt and the bioluminescent makeup; the woman who had a mouth like a broken promise; the ballet dancer who was so nice that it obliterated her personality; the woman I know sits around her apartment with heavily impasto makeup and Nina Simone CD playing on repeat in case a foreign dignitary or divorced heart surgeon stops by for a cup of sugar and some matrimony; the doleful aphid who, while doing her most artful Scarlett, told me about her Bad Luck with idle lotharios who have nothing to offer (like myself) and who I know will eventually marry a bumptious banker from Baltimore and settle for a pyrrhic life of sailboats and polo party invitations that read Mr. and Mrs. Not Happy but Relieved Not to Be Alone.
Though my personal favorite was this paragraph
I peel off my clothes and squat genuflectively on the floor and start wringing it out in pleasureless, workmanlike movements. It's a wank only Henry Ford could love, but it does the job. Eventually I get that familiar feeling of efflorescent wetness in my veins and a gun-shy orgasm gurgles stupidly out. As the stringy discharge of bleach and baby powder splatters onto the crumpled paper of a slush manuscript I never sent back, I can't help blurting out the same words I always do when I come: Viva la Evie.
Yup after this I was hard pressed to continue reading this crap but I persevered and finished this god-awful book but only because I needed it for a challenge otherwise I would have promptly chucked it in the trash. Unfortunately I had to wait until page 322 to do just that. Good riddance to bad rubbish!
