Lena Dunham, one of New York City’s worst exports, is back with a new memoir — and the media is treating her like a returning hero.
Trust me: Dunham is particularly, specifically awful.
She is unwell. She tells us in so many ways in Famesick, the book she’s currently promoting on podcasts, TV, in magazines and newspapers, and on a book tour, which she conducts while reclining on stage — in bed.
Dunham has, by all accounts, eaten herself into morbid obesity before age 40, yet is considered by The New York Times and others to be a generational oracle, a font of insight, an artist for the ages.
I forgot how truly awful she is.
