I was drawn in by the pieces of myself I saw in her introduction—namely, her open questioning of whether her self-examination through writing was a form of introspection or an elaborate mural she was painting of herself (her ideal self, in many cases). This is something I worry about constantly. I then grew curious of her thoughts on internet culture, feminism, and optimization—concepts I think about ceaselessly. I wanted to know what someone who writes about my anxieties, and has years more life experience behind them, would arrive at.

But I found myself disappointed by this book. Repeatedly.

First (and this is by far the least important critique in this review) by how poorly-researched Tolentino's section on Amazon reads. She spent several paragraphs dissecting the enterprise's online marketplace and warehouses (which are technically not operated by Amazon), completely ignoring AWS, the cloud-computing platform that accommodates for most of Amazon's revenue. It is, in my opinion, a significantly more interesting segment of their business, and there is much to say about how the company's product requirements, "customer obsession", and stinginess shape its management practices and ultimately deteriorate its working environment. The engineer in me was gravely disappointed; there was quite a lot to dissect there.

What's more, every time I thought Tolentino was about to say something interesting, something profound, she abruptly cut away to a delightful little anecdote. It made for an engrossing read, but aside from a handful of interesting connections between modern-day feminism and capitalism, I didn't walk away with much more than I came in with. But maybe that was the point.

Perhaps I was simply expecting too much depth from what was, at its core, an introduction to these concepts. But her style reminded me of Sally Rooney's, and it left me wondering whether there was more intensity and more darkness, sitting underneath the prose than she let onto the page. I wonder if she held back in those anecdotes to keep the book, and the version of herself she was sharing with us, palatable to a wider audience.

That's not to say that the book is completely devoid of beautiful, tragic, and thought-provoking contemplations. Many times, heavy lines like "women's bodies have always been test sites upon which governing hierarchies are broken down and reiterated" and "for people to believe you deserve justice, you have to be destroyed" left me staring wearily ahead as the weight of her remarks settled on my shoulders.

But I wouldn't recommend this to women who have spent a considerable amount of time doing some form of reflection on The State of Things and are looking for something new to sit with—besides a few pieces of trivia about the origins of Barre and Lululemon, this likely won't introduce much that you haven't already turned over yourself. It is, at its best, a restatement of a bleak condition that we already know to be true. And at its worst, it skirts millennial tote bag-level platitudes—sets of surface-level commentary about the interplay of feminism, capitalism, and the self.

But I'd be quick to give it to any man—who has, by the nature of how modern society is structured (see "Invisible Knapsack" and "White Ignorance"), never been obliged to reckon with these concepts—if he wanted to engage in a meaningful conversation with me in good faith. As I have, far too many times in the recent past, encountered manifestations of the Madonna–whore complex in supposedly progressive men and a general disdain for self-sustaining and competent women that I thought we had grown past societally, and I am tired. Very, very tired.