This, I think, is why Lena Dunham drives so many people totally nuts. On one hand, she’s enviable; on the other hand, her achievements are treated so lacksidasically, compared to the rigorous reflection with which she examines her experiences with sex, friendship, and her own body, that she seems to be raking in accolades with maddening, preternatural ease.
And then the internet crawled into its navel to sleep, and dreamt beautiful dreams of a pop-culture world constructed entirely out of criticisms.
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