YOU GUYS. Lena Dunham is writing a book.
In case you don’t know, Ms. Dunham is the 26-year-old star and writer and director of a show called “Girls,” which is a melodramedey all about herself. And when she’s not busy reenacting her life (often naked) on camera, she is now writing a book of autobiographical essays that looks like an advice book but “isn’t an advice book,” which must be hipster code because I don’t know what the hell that means. Other than the book will include actual pages of her food diary and she muses about things like shopping and death. Mm-hmm.
“There is nothing gutsier to me than a person announcing that their story is one that deserves to be told,” Delusional Dunham says about writing her book, “especially if that person is a woman.”
Ahem. Narcissism and feminism are VERY DIFFERENT THINGS.
You guys. I watched her show. All of it. And I learned that what is so excruciatingly annoying about Lena Dunham is, admittedly, what is really annoying about lots of ambitious yuppies in their 20s: We all want the world to recognize our own brilliance, but due to being twentysomething and having like zero life experience except for that six weeks studying abroad, we don’t have the years of wisdom that actually makes someone awesome.
So you work and you live and you hope that one day, you’ll become eclectic, brilliant and wise. And you try to keep your self-importance to yourself.
But not Lena Dunham. TV is not enough. The New Yorker is not enough. Lena Dunham’s self importance is so gapingly hungry that THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH.