People under the age of 18 should read Emily Gould's book in order to find out exactly what type of person they should try NOT to become. The publishers, who really should know better, try to pass Gould's memoirs off as the rigorously honest self-reflections of a sophisticated hipster. But in truth they are simply the verbal brain farts of an excruciatingly vapid, deeply unimaginative mind. That the book was ever even considered for publication is an embarrassment to contemporary American letters. Emily Gould, you've had more than your 15 minutes. Now please just go away.