Poisonous cotton candy, but in book form

Am I allowed to write a review of a book I didn?t finish? If so, let me say that Julie Klausner?s I Don?t Care About Your Band was more than a waste of time ? it was a gooey blob of treacle that is still burrowing a cavity in my soul, even though I banished it from my presence as quickly as I could.

I tried to finish this collection of purportedly comedic essays. Really, I did. I believe that you should give a book a chance once you start it, because for all you know it could redeem itself in the end. That I finish books once I start them is a point of pride with me, but in the case of I Don?t Care About Your Band, I had no choice but to let this generous streak snap.

The problem here is not that Klausner herself isn?t funny. I?ve listened to her podcasts and read a few other things she?s written and she can be quite humorous.

No, the issue here is that Klausner seemed to prepare for writing this book by gobbling up every frothy relationship piece ever published in a women?s magazine over the past 20 years and then vomiting them all up. Until I read Klausner?s book, I had never heard a human being parrot the clich?s, the stereotypes, and the impossibly self-helpy affirmations common to things meant to be read quickly and then disregarded quite as dogmatically as she does.

It?s not just a lack of original thought ? she even uses terms and imagery I have read in a dozen other places. Her worst offense? Extending the relationship between Miss Piggy and Kermit into an allegory for her own frustrating love life. It isn?t funny, it?s not creative, it isn?t imaginative ? it?s just sad and boring and insulting to any reader with an IQ above 45.

In a way, I am to blame for losing all the time I spent giving this book a shot. I knew it was relationshippy when I picked it up, but I didn?t know it was this bad. In fact, I didn?t know anything could be this bad.

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