A young woman’s so-called love life is crazy sexy, but will she find the TLC?
The 1990s brought us The Ex-Files, Lesbianimaniacs, and Boi Meets World. Or they would have if women like K.B. Draper had presided over the boob tube. With relationships that are floppier than Blossom’s hats, Draper details her so-called love life in living color.
The cast consists of fly (off the handle) girls, girls who are thicker than flannel, and girls who are looser than MC Hammer’s harem pants. One main squeeze is sane, though, so naturally Draper sabotages this incredibly too good to be true adventure of two girls in love and resumes living single.
Dis functional much?
But femme’s the breaks for K.B., who seems to enjoy k.d. languishing in self-pity. Nevertheless, our relatable raconteur continues to go fish in the hopes that the next relationship will be longer and stronger, or at least won’t spoil quite as fast as a fried green tomato. Although the writing is not high art―the author likes to ramble on as much as she likes to gamble on love―you’ll dote on most of her anecdotes.
As a narrator, Draper is viable and unreliable, appealing and revealing. She is unabashedly callow and shallow, unfailingly frivolous and chivalrous.
If you’ve ever considered yourself Drew Barrymore or less familiar with the same sex, only to discover that you are not the crazy sexy cool doyenne of dyke dating and, in fact, your lady friend is not dating you but intimidating you, then U-Haul come back now, ya hear? Just be prudent with your prepositions―sometimes it’s better to move on than in.