I’m not a fan of Dunham’s TV series, Girls, so wasn’t terribly into the 50% of the book which reeked of bad choices, awkward sex, drunken pomposity. But there were a few gems sparkling in the dung heap, primarily in the section about Work, where she exposes some of the harassment she’s received at the hands of male Hollywood and her laughing in their face and not giving in. So yay for the feminist bits, but they’re overshadowed by a general distaste I have for people who grew up in NYC and lord it over everyone in their memoirs about growing up in the city. I have more interest in those of us who made our own way to the metropolis, fought our own battles. Dunham chokes me with her tales of therapy, fancy schools, fabulous parties thrown by her art-world parents.