This was a rather dull read. I longed for more insight into how her relationship with her parents contributed to her drinking. I found myself forcing myself to pick the book up again because I'd spent money on it and somehow thought that if I read the whole book, I woud have gotten my money's worth.
One of the more interesting parts of the book is when she goes to Paris and writes an article about Chris Harison, but it turns out that this really had zero relevance to any of the storlyline and came across as something she threw in to the memoir to make her story appear more interesting.
The most authentic part of the entire book is when she recounts her experience trying to retrieve her purse from a hotel room after a blackout. The gritty pathetic nature of the experience was difficult to swallow. It was one of the few times in the book that the ugliness of her disease wasn't sugar-coated with humor. It was real, raw, and embarrassing. This book needed more authenticity like that.