Froth with attitude in Purcell’s debut.
Tyler Tracer can describe her life only in terms of scenes from schlock ’80s TV shows—you know, like in Saved By The Bell, when people would get excited about something and yell? You don’t remember that pivotal moment in American culture? Well, you can f*** off. Those shows stood for something, like—well, something. Tyler doesn’t know exactly what. If she could explain what goes on in her head, she wouldn’t be so f****ed up. God, doesn’t anyone understand that she’s, like, on the edge? She just crashed her f***ing car! Hey, dropping dead by the side of the road would be totally better than the sh** she puts up with day in and day out. So should she just slash her wrists with a broken Pabst Blue Ribbon beer bottle? If she could just get the soundtrack to her life nailed down before she dies—okay, make a list of Top Ten Most Irresistibly Sexual Songs. What does this have to with the plot? Nothing. There is no plot. Lots of lists, though. Top Ten Reasons I Let Guys Treat Me Like Sh**. Top Ten Most Sexual Things About Men—a list applying only to guys Tyler likes f***ing, since most men just have these “useless, ugly, pink wet noodles” they keep trying to rub against her. But some dudes get better grades—their d***s “become these beautiful, soft strong stamens to her flower.” She loves that. As for the lists, there’s also the Top Ten Reasons My Dad Cannot Die Yet. Aha! That’s why Tyler talks in four-letter words, drives all night, sleeps all day, has sex with losers, can’t hold a job, chain-smokes, goes through a lifetime supply of crystal meth in 24 hours, and wears sunglasses indoors. She feels bad about her dad’s fatal illness and stuff! Moving right along, there’s Top Ten Things That Suck About Funerals. Etcetera.
Self-indulgent, deeply bratty first novel.