Getting over a breakup? Have a feeling you're messy as hell? It's dawning on you that you have poor taste in men? In friends? That the men you date have poor taste in women? Could the universe be signaling you need to get your act together?
Every character in this novel is hot garbage, irredeemably narcissistic, and (I hope) your mouth will be hanging open as you marvel at how shamelessly mean some people are. But I also hope you laugh your butt off, even if you're not that different from them (but please stay away from me). Harriet, our unheroine, is said to be Owens herself, and the apartment is on Morton Street, a stone's throw from our Prince Street store. Reading it is the literary equivalent to a slow, stinking, Satanic hot New York summer's day. Will Harriet ever find a little contentment and peace of mind?
— AuroraHarriet is leaving her boyfriend Claude, "the French rat." That at least is how Harriet sees things, even if it's Claude who has just asked Harriet to leave his Greenwich Village apartment. Well, one way or another she has no intention of leaving. To the contrary, she will stay and exact revenge - or would have if Claude had not had her unceremoniously evicted. Still, though moved out, Harriet is not about to move on. Not in any way. Girlfriends circle around to patronize and advise, but Harriet only takes offense, and it's easy to understand why. Because mad and maddening as she may be, Harriet sees past the polite platitudes that everyone else is content to spout and live by. She is an unblinkered, unbuttoned, unrelenting, and above all bitingly funny prophetess of all that is wrong with women's lives and hearts - until, in a surprise twist, she finds a savior in a dark room at the Chelsea Hotel.