I can’t deny that a lot of this memoir felt disjointed: the summary promised a road trip memoir, the book itself was not that. It’s more like a collection of essays where, instead of the chapters being linked by one period of Randa Jarrar’s life, oftentimes it’s by a specific theme. Some of these chapters felt like they were different pieces of writing stitched together, others felt as if they were telling a complete story.

Jarrar’s writing is also very crass and unapologetic, which I can respect, even if some parts made me uncomfortable. (Someone described this as a “weirdly Freudian memoir” and…yeah.😭) 

I liked the latter half of the book more, when I thought she provided some food for thought that wasn’t present in the other chapters that mostly followed her sexual escapades. (I think some of my favorite chapters were with her father, and Jarrar figuring out how to live in a time when her father different from the person who traumatized her in childhood.)There’s also more of an explanation for why she placed those chapters in-between some pretty serious ones with recollections of abuse that were difficult to read about.

Torn as to whether to recommend this or not because it truly depends on the kind of reader you are, I see a people not minding the structure and others finding this self-indulgent. I didn’t love this memoir to be honest, I actually liked it(mostly for the second half), save for a couple elements I had mixed feelings on. I’ll definitely look more into Tahiya Carioca/Taheyya Kariokka(how did I not know about her before???), and probably check out Jarrar’s debut novel, too.