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kenziejustquietly 's review for:
The New Me
by Halle Butler
(Sickos: Yes! Ha ha ha! YES! meme)
4.5 stars for the sticky, violent inner machinations of the girlboss.
Halle Butler gifted this book to all us bitches who use a "core" suffix to describe their aesthetic preferences, and it's the last nail in the sadgirl coffin for me.
I have been trying not to define my literary affinities along the lines of feral goblin sluts. I have branched out. I have read Nietzsche. Okay. I have read Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Like. I finished Oathbringer. I've been TRYING. But there is something pure and magnetic about whatever frequency these scarethot novels are operating on. This is the stuff that gets in my blood.
The venom is addictive; the acidic and weaponised politeness, electric. Halle Butler spills her guts into spiraling sentences and ranting imaginings, with everyone's favourite type of first person perspective: an uppity narrator who has nooo fucking idea how mentally unwell she sounds.
The spoils of this genre, for me, do come with a little touch of plastic. Given the extremely short time frame between this book and the Sad Bitch Bible (MYORAR), I doubt The New Me was a copy, or even directly influenced by it. But given the lines it's written between, it's impossible not to compare them, and this one just isn't quite as good. It has dull patches, repetitive wanderings, and feedback loops that make for a slightly more laborious reading experience than is necessary. It's just lacking that overwhelming substance I found festering beneath the surface in MYORAR.
Still. This book's biggest genius is the last chapter. The depressing ending, which I am sure was supposed to be depressing, ended up reading not very depressing at all, which was ...depressing. Now THAT is a feat of storytelling.
Read this book.
4.5 stars for the sticky, violent inner machinations of the girlboss.
Halle Butler gifted this book to all us bitches who use a "core" suffix to describe their aesthetic preferences, and it's the last nail in the sadgirl coffin for me.
I have been trying not to define my literary affinities along the lines of feral goblin sluts. I have branched out. I have read Nietzsche. Okay. I have read Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Like. I finished Oathbringer. I've been TRYING. But there is something pure and magnetic about whatever frequency these scarethot novels are operating on. This is the stuff that gets in my blood.
The venom is addictive; the acidic and weaponised politeness, electric. Halle Butler spills her guts into spiraling sentences and ranting imaginings, with everyone's favourite type of first person perspective: an uppity narrator who has nooo fucking idea how mentally unwell she sounds.
The spoils of this genre, for me, do come with a little touch of plastic. Given the extremely short time frame between this book and the Sad Bitch Bible (MYORAR), I doubt The New Me was a copy, or even directly influenced by it. But given the lines it's written between, it's impossible not to compare them, and this one just isn't quite as good. It has dull patches, repetitive wanderings, and feedback loops that make for a slightly more laborious reading experience than is necessary. It's just lacking that overwhelming substance I found festering beneath the surface in MYORAR.
Still. This book's biggest genius is the last chapter. The depressing ending, which I am sure was supposed to be depressing, ended up reading not very depressing at all, which was ...depressing. Now THAT is a feat of storytelling.
Read this book.