This was powerful and raw and sometimes kind of gross and often depressing but alternately funny and nearly always surreal and beautiful. It's essentially a stream of consciousness narrative written by a homeless teenage junky (vampire?) who might be hallucinating supernatural experiences or might just be using them as a poignant metaphor for being young and hurt and lost (or might as well as anything just be as real as any of the other nightmarish experiences that are more rooted in "reality") ( )

Krilanovich takes as the vehicle for her prose the adventures of a gang of teenage runaways and dropouts in the dank and druggy Pacific Northwest, so characters and plot are less relevant than daydreams, nightmares, hallucinations and psychogenic disorientation. A sensual, bewildering, devouring read.

The language is a beating, serving no purpose other than ... no, just no purpose.

The characters aren't characters, and the story is no story. Borders on tone poem territory, in prose.

A slog all around. ( )

OK, I really, really tried to get through this. But I am not going to be guilt-tripped or pressured into thinking this is some great work. It's weird and it has some scary imagery, but I agree with another reviewer who said he thought the author is a bit too in love with her own words. I'm done. Smell ya, Vampire Teen Hobo Junkies. I just really don't care where Kim went. ( )

I circled huge chunks of this text. Pages. ( )