The Problem With the Children of New York Genna Rivieccio
T
o be born in New York City is to be born delusional. By virtue of your birthplace, you are somehow automatically indoctrinated with the notion that you—and others like you—are the most significant and interesting beings on Earth. There is quite possibly no better recent indication of this than a certain memoir called Not That Kind of Girl, which has gained a second wind in the wake of its paperback release and translation into various foreign languages; yet, it’s hard to fathom how one could ever get across the vapidness of the content as effectively in any tongue beyond English. Presented as “a collection of personal
essays,” the “book” is a random smattering of sexual experiences, white girl problems (which, yes, is a derogatory term, but too applicable to avoid in this case) and elucidations of how lifelong privilege and a built-in destiny for fame makes you utterly oblivious to reality. The frequent mention of French bulldogs and clawfoot tubs is just one indication of how out of touch Lena Dunham is not only with the average person, but with the average New Yorker (meaning someone born elsewhere). Not only are the cutesy little drawings throughout the “novel” a testament to its utter frivolity, but so, too, are tales of her sexual
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