I hate your voice. I hate your reading pace for making me listen at the devil’s speed 2x, like I’m another bot who came to ruin things and walk fast totally tuned out. Still a good sport, I try records you recommend: Sunset Tree, Tallahassee but I think they’re bad like your maximalist cover art, easily interchangeable for a craft beer label loud and bunk. I hate that my ex and I had no mutual friends so we listened to your book to fill space and loved the bit on Dr. Pepper, made with no flavor in mind, just taste of air from an old-school soda fountain. We ordered it everywhere and I hate that I buy it now because it bottles some bygone place. Hate my best friend’s fiancé, you left her no tip. I still hate her and that overrated cafe more. Now I can’t write because you took all the best lines about loneliness and Mario Kart. None left for me speechless in the parking lot after the chapter on Indiana, not because I know the place, but because it recalled all the other ones, aggressively ordinary cloying and hard to put away like a book of your bestselling takes. 3 stars.