Terrible book. Sad that she considers writing is a talent she should display in addition to the other artistic feats she’s accomplished. Put off by the obsession with weaving her own tale with that of the males in her life – hubby Thurston, brother Keller, Mike Kelly, Kurt Cobain, and the thousands of other males that propped up her life somehow. There are straggling bits where she grasps at her female identity – mentioning reading Julia Kristeva but then immediately discounting it, saying who has time to read as a new-mother. Thoroughly soaked and saturated with woe-is-me-I’ve-divorced-my-soul-mate-husband-for-cheating-on-me. Cannot fathom the memoir coming from hubby Thurston as being nearly as obsessed with her as she is him. Painful reminder that although some women appear to have been awakened, it is only a surface wound. “I wanted to be an artist since I was five” she cringes when someone else says that exact thing because it’s “her line.” But the “I find it strange when people don’t know what they want to do in life” screams out for a thousand slaps of reality to come raining in on her. Like vapid books with lots of name-dropping? This one’s for you.