Is it possible to read one-too-many feminist millennial essay collections? If so, I think I’ve reached that point.
Through this collection of essays, I learned a bit about Oyler. I learned about her chequered dating history, her life as an expat in Berlin, her experimentation with drugs, her meandering views on autofiction, and her thoughts on how people ‘gamify’ Goodreads reviews.
There were elements I liked. I appreciated the critique of criticism itself, the pretentious life-abroad anecdotes, and her takedown of TEDx-style vulnerability culture. She’s best when she’s sassy—I just wish there was more snark.
But I also feel like I’ve read a lot of this before, thanks to the myriad of other essay collections I’ve consumed. In particular, her lengthy descriptions of her unique brand of anxiety felt overfamiliar. In 2025, this kind of disclosure borders on universal experience—it’s no longer giving voice to something new or taboo. Her take, unfortunately, felt frustratingly pedestrian.
And of course, I must note the irony here: I’m writing a critique of a seasoned critic… on a collection of essays that examines the role of the critic.
How very meta.
This one didn’t land with me overall. 2 shield toads out of 5.