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This book is the epitome of white privilege living in a bourgeois bubble of gentrification.

I love to read memoirs because you get to learn about a person's life experience, but also the lessons they have learned and how the events in their life shaped their world view. This graphic novel was a woman's incredibly privlidged existance with no real message and not really grounded in most people's reality. No matter how much you insist you were a poor student and your parents were poor artists, traveling around the world and eating fine cuisine is not the life of a poor person. (not to mention that all fat people are brainwashed sheep willing to eat trash because they aren't cultured enough to value a $50 block of cheese like her enlightened parents, ick).

This memoir ultimately reminds me of a hipster cafe with exposed brick walls, booths made from reclaimed wood, and serves you organic kale water inflused with lavender from miss-matched mason jars. It tries so hard to convince you that it's "authentic" you leave feeling the exact opposite.