Loooong, self-indulgent and repetitive rant that I expected to be far more interesting than it was. Phillips can create a turn of phrase well enough but she was in dire need of a decent editor. Basically I read this to tick off a task in the 2018 BookRiot Read Harder challenge, and I figured the reputation this book had for gossip and drama and sheer horrified fame might make for an entertaining read. It didn't, much, mostly because all the people in here seem so small and desperately unpleasant. In the end I'm left with the impression of a vast and shallow hell that ultimately verges on tedium. (No wonder these people did so many drugs, they all sound bored out of their tiny minds.)

I'm torn between shelving this as autobiography or memoir. Technically I suppose it's the former, as there's a small section on Phillips' childhood, but 98% of this giant tome is the time she spent in Hollywood, and it has the sort of highly styled and emotionally focused tone that I expect more from memoirs. Eh. Could be either, I reckon.