Tao Lin's poetry in this collection flirts between brutally honest open analogy, creative metaphor, and complete rambling inanity. Sadly, most of the poems lean towards the latter - nonsensical analogies and word-choices abound, as well as repetition, whiny language, and sentence after sentence with no substance or meaning to grip on to. I liked the bits in-between larger sections that glimmered with insight or tangible depression, communicating the emotion of the author effectively, but mostly it felt like a series of blog posts were put into a paper-shredder and vomited out onto paper.
I might venture a 2.5 if one was available, but as is, I wouldn't recommend this collection. Parts of it were enjoyable and easy to digest, but mostly it felt like a slog through vaguely neurotic vocabulary exercise and masturbation.