My Inner Bimbo

Wordy and self-indulgent and not at all fun, "My Inner Bimbo" is a book I got for free and then couldn't give away. I suppose it's meant to be a journey into the unconscious ambivalence of a gross old man who's discovering his own sympathy with the slutty twits whom he'd always objectified. The protagonist -- if you can call him that -- is gripped by the sort of introspection normally more at home in LiveJournals: he never successfully communicates the reasons for his weary sadness, but it certainly isn't for lack of trying.
I don't hate reading, even dense, demanding reading such as you'll find here; but like baking a cake, if you don't get some kind of reward for your effort, you're bound to feel a little gypped. Skip the writing, you won't miss a thing.
The art's fairly explicit, but only erotic in an Isn't-Sex-Miserable sort of way. The inexhaustible supply of T&A is instantly bland, and becomes downright distasteful when coupled with the withered flesh and inexplicable melancholy of the main character.
Whee.