I just read the novel Love Me Back, by Merritt Tierce. And holy mackerel, was it a major kick in the wiener-area. MAY-JAH. (I once saw an interview with Posh Spice where she used “MAY-JAH” constantly, and for some reason this is the time where my brain has brought this back. I think the trauma of the book has caused me to seek solace on a subconscious level from Vickie Becks, which we can discuss in terms of wherefores at some later time).
Love Me Back is the story of Marie, a young woman making her way as a waitress at various places from The Olive Garden to luxury restaurants. The story jumps around in terms of time and place, and chronicles Marie’s life experiences, which consist of Marie floating from one job to the next and one sexual encounter to the next, all of which are empty and sad, to put it mildly. Tierce doesn’t do a gol-dang thing to help make sense of why Marie does the things she does, and resists pacing the novel in a way that offers any relief from the intensity of Marie’s life. Resolutions or explanations or lightness in any form do not appear, and it’s this that pummeled me into a sort of hopeless paste by the end of the whole frickety frackin thing (we found love in a hopeless paste! Except no, we don’t because life sucks hard! A new tune for Rhi-Rhi is what I am saying). So, to sum up: graphic sexual relentless nihilism, is what I would call it. Really compellingly written, but DANG. That book was harrrrrrrd. MAY-JAH.