I picked up 'Fake Accounts' expecting sharp wit and clever observations about modern life—after all, that's what Oyler's known for in her critical writing. But boy, was I disappointed.

The protagonist is the kind of person who'd dominate a dinner party conversation with stories about her 'fascinating' life in Berlin and NYC, while everyone else secretly checks their phones. She's self-aware enough to know she's self-involved, but not self-aware enough to realize we don't care.

Here's the thing—I don't mind unlikeable characters. Give me a villain any day! But this character isn't even interestingly awful. Her lies are boring, her depression feels performative, and her 'deep' thoughts about internet culture are things we've all tweeted at 2am after too much scrolling.

The most painful parts read like being trapped looking at someone's vacation photos—except instead of just smiling politely, I paid $15 for the privilege. There are moments where Oyler's writing shines, particularly when describing that specific exhaustion of being online too long. But these gems are buried under pages of navel-gazing that goes nowhere.

My book club unanimously hated it (rare for us!), with one member joking it should be retitled 'Waste of Time: A Novel.' If you're looking for smart commentary on digital life, read one of Oyler's essays instead. This novel proves that just because someone can write well about fiction doesn't mean they should write fiction.