as much as i enjoy pete wentz’s writing and really anything he creates, this novel leaves a sour taste in my tongue. i didn’t hate it—not quite, but i did abhor the narrator just a little. by hating the narrator, i’m probably hating on the writer. the novel is fictional but i have heard it’s mostly creative nonfiction if not a little exaggerated to enhance readability and its ability to grab a reader’s interest. the novel felt self-indulgent. too real, which is probably why i felt uncomfortable reading it. the narrator felt almost like a twin brother to me. i don’t want to say we share the same thoughts (we do not!) but it’s nearly synonymous: the mess that’s in our heads, the mental illness, the need to self-destruct and ruin and be ruined. i don’t know how to feel about this novel. i don’t know how to feel about the narrator, too. maybe it’s best i remain unknowing