This book kind of makes me want to puke. Terrible, but true.

It’s a sort-of-memoir from a woman who spends a year or so ‘passing’ as a man in several all-male enclaves: bowling teams, strip clubs, monastaries, men’s retreats. And it’s a sort-of over-written, over-analyzed, overwrought, over-generalized pile of random imagined observations.

I feel like it’s sort of transgressive in a good way sometimes to infiltrate spheres usually outside your reach. I also feel like it’s transgressive in a totally evil way to tell the people you find there how they’re feeling.

Also, contains writing like so:

“We let out all the hateful air in our balloons like mad monologists with a cogent form of Tourette’s.”

Need I say more? I could, you know.