I started out enjoying this chatty, iconoclastic memoir, but as I waded into its 308 pages, I started to believe less and less of her story and to feel more and more like I had been Shanghaied by some kind of ADHD pathological liar, phoney, and con artist. She is often careless about details and the seams show. She remains throughout a journalist, voyeur, freeloader, spy, mole. I do not like you Bianca Bosker.