This book should've been condensed into a tight, dynamite essay. There was a heartbreaking but ironic narration that was great at first. But, as a whole book, I began to feel the way I do when I'm watching a comedian onstage telling the same joke again and again, wondering why my drink isn't stronger and whether or not I'll ever get my nachos: restless. I will say that Moore had some beautiful descriptions of food and heartbreaking descriptions of her own body; and I agree with the blurb on the back of the paperback edition that claims her descriptions could "call to mind ... MFK Fisher" but they don't sustain. At least not for me. Self-examination in the form of deprecation turns into self-indulgence quickly in memoirs, and this is a good example.