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I might have liked this book had I read it, say, 15 years ago in my 20s. Because it's cutesy and fun and sweet. Like Pop Rocks.

And a little bit of Pop Rocks goes a long way. So after 30 pages I wanted to tell the author to take some chamomile tea and chill the f**k out.

The book is more character- than plot-driven, which is fine. But the author uses the meta-fiction/narrator-intervention device less skillfully than others (Milan Kundera, Italo Calvino and Vonnegut come to mind)and more self-consciously (Look at me! look at me!).

So now that I sound like an unappreciative dick, I'll end with this: It's not awful, but you can probably skip it.