Some aspects of this, such as the stark juxtaposition between the author and her father, lit (criticism), and queer stories—both explicit and reading—work incredibly well. They become entirely convincing and engrossing, and when this story is at its best.

The structure, however, kind of undermines the fact that the author clearly knows this is the heart of the story. Remixing beats and going on digressions in order for it to serve two masters; the lesser being so much less interesting it becomes not much more than a stop gap to the “good stuff”. Even the paneling, line work; heck maybe all of the visual craft is not as good as when we get to the heart of things. It goes from a busy body (literally), to an impeccable, almost flawless piece of auto memoir.

Or whatever this is. Personally, as I grow older and memory affects me differently, I find that there is only ever fiction. But I do understand people need their lies, as this story itself shows.