"I’m such a badass. I am literally the baddest bitch on the planet. If there was a bitch contest between me and every other heartbroken, hissing, red-eyed, puffy-faced woman in the world, I would defeat every last one of them--handily… I’m a bitch, but I swear I don’t want to be. Really, I think I have to be.”

            -- Excerpted from Chapter One (pg. 4)

 

Normally, I’d say it takes a lot of nerve to publish your memoirs before you even turn 30, but in the case of Helena Andrews I have to concede that it turns out to be totally warranted. For this fiery young sister not only already has a lot of life experiences under her belt, literally and figuratively, but has cultivated a wealth of wisdom to share well beyond her years. And, perhaps most importantly, she has a most beguiling way with words which keep you intrigued with what’s coming out of her mouth next in this shockingly-frank autobiography.

As for credentials, Helena’s a seasoned journalist who has worked for The New York Times, O Magazine and Politico since her graduation from Columbia University. This impressive resume’ sounds fairly conventional, until you factor in that she was raised by a lesbian on Catalina Island, where she was the only black kid in town.

Her writing style might best described as a non-linear stream of conscious reflecting that Ivy League pedigree but blended with an introspective compulsion to bare her soul. The upshot is an unexpurgated opus which primarily focuses on her frustrations over a never-ending string of failed relationships. ...