And the ability to speak another language might mark you out as brilliant if you are an insular white New Yorker, but I'm not sure it distinguishes you even from the taxi drivers you are so delighted at confounding in Paris, all of whom typically speak more than two languages. I think she might be well worth reading if she channelled her teen angst and vaunted reading of books (does that really make someone special these days?) into crafting fiction. It's all about the packaging, as evidenced by the fact that I picked this book up in a bookstore and bought it on the strength of its look and feel without knowing anything about it. Perhaps it is therefore unsurprising that the author has found herself in the world of high fashion, profile blogging, and illness narrative. That she lives a life of unacknowledged privilege, flitting between homes in New York, Paris, and Cape Cod makes her self-regard near insufferable. That doesn't make her weird or strange or unique. It is not unusual or surprising to learn that a teenage girl thought of herself as weird or strange or unique. A good title and a quirky technique of extended explanatory footnotes is not enough to raise this self-indulgent memoir above the level of a whiny teen blog.
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